The Plot Thickens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My eyes happen to turn off in the middle of
A zoetrope of summer vacation:
And it isn’t any fun anymore, covering myself with
The canopies of defeated bi-planes:
All the fairs have migrated too, and they aren’t
Giving away anymore free shirts;
And I know your name, because I beat it when the time
Comes to dusk,
And rolls over like a sick and dying clock into
Crepuscule:
Alma, when I am in my house alone, lamenting you,
While your mother cooks your traditions
And you pearl the way the sap runs down the brown
Trees,
Then I become soulless, having to awaken in the morning
And go to work to see the love bites your man of
Many years gives to you,
Whether you want it or not: when I could build you castles
With sundials;
And I will keep buying you roses until there is a drought
And all the shelves of stores are emptied
And the plot thickens while my laments bare the brunt of your
Name.