The Softly Rounded Opulence Of Alma's Birthstones Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now to get distracted and daydream up to the
Corduroys and cenotaphs of my visions:
If I play videogames, I know I will lose her,
But there are ever so many dungeons full of monsters,
And the homoerotic love I could give them is almost too tangible
To be unexploited;
But then my thoughts can drift away to the beer can bellies of
Industrial airplanes, up in the air and doing some good,
Gliding softly with the zephyrs who are like ceiling fans;
And the sororities of them,
Homespun from the same fantastic visions of my very own
Colleges,
From the truancies of daydreams and graveyards I guess Alma will
Never really know,
As she gets impatient with me when I cannot figure out who she
Was:
Sometimes I mistake her for a forest fire, and when I fill her ribs
She becomes a xylophone of overpriced houses that her father
Marcelino got suckered into,
As the airplanes whisper like buzzards over mortally wounded gods;
And when I hear them I know that my time is coming soon,
So that my every twenty four hours will be overfilled and ringing
Like the effluvious wanderlust of my luckiest waters over
The softly rounded opulence of Alma’s birthstones.