When I Am Not Really Alone Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How great to illusion myself in the demiurge of evening,
To drink the last of this amber substance
In the leaking air-conditioning, to sing that I am not alone:
Mind and body co-mingle,
As Alma is disarrayed into the house her father promises her,
Slipped into the bed beside her thief of a husband;
And her mind even further away, thinking nothing of the
Rude and erudite suburbias cut like gems all around her:
Her newly migrated weeds are somehow more precious,
Her body more supple; her mind in unspoken of corridors:
She doesn’t like to read, but I have felt her heart on the pages
That should be written down:
Her daughter dances before her in the moonlight that she owns
In her room;
And this is how I think of her when I am not really alone.