The Subtle Waves Of Your Ocean Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It is Easter Sunday and we are both
Happy about a green door,
And your husband is sleeping on the couch
The light box fibrillating and dousing him like the
Bird bath of a mother;
And we stand across from each other in the kitchen
Still dirtied with the plates of barbeque:
The light is on and weepy; and your eyes
Seem to have their own tides in their perfectly circular
Oceans;
And I think about the creatures that must come out and
Bath on your cheeks when you cry;
There are little cuts on your legs from where you were
Before;
And your children are sleeping like pickup sticks in
A kindling game across the hollow floor.
I just want to step nearer to your neck and warm it with your
Name,
But I don’t say nothing at all to you, but watch as silently
As I can the subtle waves of your ocean.