Weeping And Making Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

By strange visions I strike out, the lion defeated
And his pride taken over by strong drink:
I work all day and am harassed by knights whose skeletons can
Be seen through their suits:
We hustle the cadavers of landscaping straight beside the traffic,
And sometimes when the day is failing you can see the moon:
And Alma comes like a republic; and my words for her are
Stuck on the roof of my mouth, but they are plenty;
And Alma thinks my house is beautiful: and it is also Alma’s
House, if my dreams are as real as Disney World:
And the ocean moves, oh doesn’t it, just as beautiful as a prom queen;
And just as apathetic for me; and right now I can hear my beautiful mother
Counting the beautiful money, but very soon I won’t have to hear it at
All:
I will have my own rooms, and get my five hundred a week and be happier
For it,
And if a true woman doesn’t move in with me posthaste, I have other women
To choose from, whose kites are tattooed on their person; and their souls
Are so good that they can love any man, and I have felt them coming
Towards me for so long,
These beautiful women who are stowaways on the ships of this earth;
And the graveyards are populated by their silent mothers,
And we go to visit them with these flowers, weeping and making love.