To Cry For Real Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I think of you, it is in the cool concentricity of
The air-conditioned bellies of airplanes:
It is in the slow arcing moves into which the stewardesses
Serve: long and leggy and homeless,
And they don’t use words: all they have to do is look;
And they don’t sell things: they just give things away:
When you smile at me in the fruiteria in the middle of
Our work day:
It does away with graves: Alma, and I have a chance of skipping
Class, and holding hands with you as we truant across the
Canal,
As we go into places that can be shared but don’t have
Official names,
And on larks into bedrooms of absent parents where we start
To cry for real.