To The Homecoming Of Our Supper Time Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You don’t have to tell me you read my words,
Alma:
I can tell by the rich auburn of your eyes when you look up and
Stare at me from across the fruiteria:
Then all the world shines, and I know I have been doing some good,
Because I am not beautiful enough to have you look at
Me that way on my own,
Alma:
And the customers come in and giddy-up to you, and they tell you
How beautiful you are,
Just as they tell my mother how beautiful she is; and the best I can
Hope for is to be mistaken as her brother,
And for your landlord, Alma: Your body is so sweet, and you have
Just one initial of a man tattooed on your body-
That is all I know about you,
Except that you are a butterfly migrating to work and home on
Cherry Road- I stole a pelota there for you:
Now I want to steal a kiss: I want to press my stygian hand to the furnace
Of your womb:
I want to say names into your breath that will be proven to be real:
I want to finish off this bottle of the cheapest wine,
And then see you again tomorrow and make you mine, so that I can see you
All the way to the homecoming of our supper time.