To The East Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I love you so the moon falls down while you were
Bending to tie your skates;
And your son Michael wants so many things for his
Birthday, Alma:
And you are there, enclave d into that little room of
Your father’s
House,
Over the train tracks and on the other side of your spouse;
But you never fear that I do not love you: you know that I love you,
And my hands make a mobile over your body,
Like the pantomime of the sub stellar airplanes across the moon
At night;
While I have just been drinking, and not doing much of
Anything right: just waiting on the polished tarmacs of the ancient
Fraternities of doused forest fires
For the heavens to give in, to your flights to surcease:
For you to return with you promises of fidelity by all of its morning,
Like the eucatastrophe of all of those extinct hemispheres,
Captivated by the tiny throat of a flute or a ukulele:
And then to lie with me atop the un bashful sheets and wait for the
Ever loving morning to deliver the mail to the east.