The Presents I Have Written Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alma, do you get high at looking by yourself while you
Drive down the road,
While you haven’t even realized all of the presents I have
Written for you:
I go by myself this way, Alma, until I can endear even more
For you:
While I can hold my breath and float up even higher,
And then see your yards and the cars that you drive:
And I believe that you are here,
Infesting my ribcage with the poisonous rib that some god allowed
You to steal,
While I can go outside into the yard and yawn up to the fairgrounds
Of airplanes,
And miss eating the hotdogs of their cotton candy wings,
And curse and pray to you with grass-stained knees:
I can be anybody for you, except for when you need somebody to
Feel;
And I am moving away: the river is forcing me away like jewelry down
Into the scuppernongs at the longwinded throat of your
Feral sea:
And I am right here, Alma: I am right here, swimming alone
And trying to romanticize the fishes who can never outlast the waterless
Days I have felt boiling up from the ant mounds of my mounds
That I suffer from yet another day alone and with out you.