The Times That We Made Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don’t want to have to fight you for
The nice color of your eyes: the ants will have it anyways,
And take it to their queen as a nice surprise
Underneath the roller rinks of the downed stewardesses
Thighs,
While the sun will come up and roll around like a marble
In a preschool’s game,
Over the avenues of yesterday when I hardly knew my
Mother, but could remember her name
And called out to her in the playgrounds of my fear
Where the horses have been so unlucky as to flounder,
Even if it was their own illusions, the ablutions of hummingbirds
Can also be considered to hardly be real,
And yet they come counting numbers and gossiping, Alma,
About the times that we made love.