To Rain Like This Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It still happens to rain like this,
Into the avenues that forecasted ablutions—
Even while the pale, blue pilgrims were
Yet echoing to the swing-sets of the wishing wells—
Wishing and cursing that they should live forever—
While my gut bended outwards,
Even after the Catholic and Columbian girls of
My midday playgrounds seemed to disappear—
That I was still beckoning,
As I seemed to do forever—poltergeist or
Pomegranate, still sitting here whilst
My wife brushed her teeth:
There is no bigger narrative than that—
And all of the disenfranchised girls in the world
Can still dance in the ballrooms of the citrus;
And I can play amongst them
Cradled with my firstborn child—
And so I’ll love you until the echoes of the pussywill%ws,
Or I won’t even start out—weeping,
Weeping—the day and the sunlight bleeding their
Forever obtrusions of echoes.