The Uncounted Sea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Perfect as a pride of lions and as homeless,
As regal as London,
And as unknown: I cannot get a teaching job, because
I stutter,
Because I am as homeless and as woebegone
As the most washed out butterfly, Alma:
And the lions moan as red throated as thrown out
Pomegranates in the habitats:
And I guess you know me less than I know you,
But I am still right here;
And I want the chance to know you, and to teach your children,
To hold your throat and make love to you as your clothes
Dries outside,
As if in the south of Spain,
While your young children grow outside as if in the playgrounds
Of kindergarten who are already counting their times,
As the muses muse like unused genies in their bottles in the
Linoleum oasis of the uncounted deserts
Whose mirages haunt me still like school girls counting their
Blessings while never holding on to their grandmothers outside
Of the graveyards,
And going downtown underneath the airplanes; and what about this,
And what about this, Alma, if I am certain that you were
Always, always, meant for me:
And this is no witchcraft, and only the uncounted truth of the
Uncounted sea.