Where Every Wildflower Still Grows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She was about to kiss me,
And I wanted that kiss:
I haven’t kissed a female soul in this side of
A decade,
But I demurred, and my father has bought rose
Bushes;
And coming home from the little black children’s
Park,
The light is still on in the trailer;
And when I get inside I listen to Keats;
My mother farts: She is still beautiful, and that
Kiss would have been mine,
If I wasn’t afraid of you becoming your mother;
But lets pretend that I will return in the spring,
And we will live in the country,
And I will find your kiss again on Tuesday,
And we will go to bed while the sun is still high
In a garden where every wildflower still grows.