Unconditional Reign Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Isn’t your husband jealous because his
Baby is lost in a swelter of Hollywood-
Where I’ve been skipping
Before there was mountains;
And everyone looks beautifully available even in
The libraries of Hollywood-
And out on the street legs and billboards
Selling,
Selling pleases of grapefruit, and cheated escapades
Which go great around concrete ballrooms;
And when I was really young,
I stayed long enough to put my feet in the Pacific,
And ran away,
And that is what I do professionally here today-
Though you still look so good,
With your fingers smoking plums, your mind around
The caracoles of highways where old Spanish
Ghosts dream well fermented in the legions of
Orange trees,
Or up in the roman abutments where athletic tourists
Still fall in love,
Recalling every sad glance of your face- even if they
Had never seen it, or gone to high school with you,
You are there hung up like a Christmas ornament in
The Spanish moon,
And the traffic tries deafly quiet beneath you as if in
A mute ballet,
And even more importantly young Catalonian shepherds
Come all alone as if into a bucolic theatre
Where you are deep in soliloquy, the waves your loitering
Marionettes,
And they rest captivated, dusted red like prehistoric pots,
And eat venal grapes from careless infested vines
As down against the night dreamt tide, empty sailboats wait
In bright folds seeming to cherish you unnaturally
Like Spanish butterflies who have stayed up very late
To glance up despondently like unbelieving children at your
Unconditional reign.