Throughout The Day Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All off in the light of the ships that are never heard from
Again:
Wondering this way until Christmas or suicide underneath the
Strange sheets of
Blue ants and their queens; as the fieldtrips blow across the
Mezzanines that Romeos are always figuring to climb
While the underage damsels are sleeping next to the treasure chests
During naptime;
And I don’t suppose it has to finish like this, but it does;
And the vagrants go back to sleep in their avenues of Spain and
Civil Wars,
Their eyes crying as their houses leek, as the serpents wind cantankerous
Until there is no longer any feeling for themselves;
And the black children sleep next to the Mexicans and the Guatemalans
In the tenements surceased next to the ghosts of my months old
Self: we were still dreaming of
Diana then, and living in an RV with my parents, and didn’t have a house:
We didn’t know Alma in the Spring of this very same year
In which, like a tourist, we have loved a many number of women,
But of which only one is still now our muse:
While Erin lives in Gainesville, and the ancient sheets of conquistadors
Slip inches deeper into the limestone tenements wept into by
The curling offspring of the cypress that knew that knew them:
Who still keep a nursery of the over shed cicadas that weep themselves
Anew all throughout the day.