Up To Their Goddess Of Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Doing this by and for the counting of
So many unanswered hours,
Moving her birthday cake around the fruiteria just to find
A place a little more forgiving of the wind and its adulterous
Powers,
Just so that Alma: my soul: my Alma, could have her wishes
Out on the floors of this earth on her birthday,
But otherwise being very unfair to it: if that was what I was doing
And am doing still,
Riding my verbs across the transoms of her windowsill,
Calling her out of the volcanic footpaths of Mexico, just to
Bathe in her eyes: her eyes, who have already seen motherhood,
Who kissed my lips yesterday after a fortnight of nothingness:
And to who, yesterday, I made love to, drunkenly
While some dumb cat was up on my roof, and I was so full of
The fires of my apologies:
And she was so afraid in a hurry to blow down my house,
To pick up her mother, Rosa, from the restaurant on Okeechobee
That she must be busy at all most of days:
While there are so many palm trees rising up and splaying to kiss
The sun’s esplanade in the amusement parks of this sea level glade:
And all of the forts just sit together restlessly,
Waiting for the return of their resplendent conquistadors, their
Green cannons singing up to the wily eyed birds and
Their airplanes: singing of this or singing of anything
While, eventually, the leafs fall, and the birds sing up to their goddess
Of airplanes: if they remember to sing to anything at all.