The Rest Of Our Lives Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I'll get up at noon and whisper out of my jail cell—
With my dog at my feet
And the roads moaning, carrying up to mountains
Where entire populations of windmills sleep—
I don't think you can remember where she placed herself,
Even though you can struggle up—
After we have run away and each of us lied to ourselves
And laid down like plastic flowers in the graveyards—
I am just so sorry that it happened,
That the paper snowflakes fell from your eyes,
Folded up love letters in the middle of the meadow of
What was supposed to be sunshine's class—
Even though we were about to go to jail for the rest of
Our lives.