The Very Graveyards Of Your Very Own Immortality Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The body really flexes its muscle; I really flexes it enough:
And he got to you really early didn’t he, Alma,
My love,
Even while the airplanes in their pretty bodices touch down on my
Chin and now I have a tattoo and all of this stuff:
All of this bright confetti wounds that are open in even
Early morning
While the cocks crow and the dragons show their stuff:
And the traffics moves, Alma;
It really moves: for both of your children it moves, and it tries
On it variously pitiful shoe sizes,
But otherwise it eats poison apples, and I suppose you love
Your poisoned man,
Because even now here he is again, touching down and calling
My bluff, but none of it is hardly even real, Alma,
And I shoe the horseflies away,
Because I grew up in even better places that here, and even though
I want to touch you so-
I have been high up in the embittered tree line, and I have
Even more rum to swing my lines,
And none of it was even close to here, and if you can here me now, Why
Then you are too far close to the very graveyards of your very own
Immortality.