Until I Have To Leave Myself Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cursing, but taking the time to sleep with myself:
Or to really clean up, manhandling if softly, and in any kind of weather:
Or both by themselves:
As now you have to call it like it is, as the Ferris Wheels turn themselves
Around,
And Alma likes me more and more:
And maybe she is finally found out, as if in the foundation of an unsociable
Fire that has finally touched ground:
And what about the airplanes that used to live there: and what, oh
What have they been doing, but making their own
Galleries of a nubile show: and then they really impress themselves
Like the first spittoons off the waves of gallant horses
Who have always been winning themselves:
As the storm clouds pirouette into surrender, as the bayonets of
Whatever enemies we were fighting bleed themselves dry:
As my uncle’s market makes so much money
Until I have to leave myself, and wave my muse, Alma, goodbye.