While The Orchard Sings Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I very much appreciate breathing in the shadowed
Real-estate of your distance:
All the cars seem to be buzzing upward satisfied in their
Air-conditioning, while I get quotes on house insurance:
I drive past golden lions to look at my yellow house sleeping like
A mariposa fat and sated, escaped from the zoo
Where I grew up as a little boy; and then I had to matriculate into
Highschool, and I had to see you- and it really busted me up:
Now I am a minor poet destitute from the red bricks of state university:
Gone from the gong shows of the sweet titted sororities and all of their
Hosts:
I used to jog the graveyard shift all around your university, Sharon;
And I thought of you creased in the armpits of love letters while I slept
With a woman who could never know how to really sleep with me;
And the wind whistled your name, Sharon;
And I have hidden beautiful heirlooms in the wombs of trees that you
Will never find, which would have been the secret marriage of my
Love if you ever skipped out of class and smelled the resin on my baking
Blocks, Sharon:
Now I have a house which is a perfect miniature of the Alamo, and I can
Bicycle down to the sea any arbitrary evening and kiss her mouth instead
Of yours;
While all the lucky cats are dying, and the housewives sleep in the unlucky
Guts of the harpooned albatrosses, and the numbers for all of these
Crimes come with the territory, I still whistle for you like a day laborer
Out in the fine morning, his fingers numbed and fibrillating
Excited if hardly paid for his picking time; while the orchard sings and
Vibrates in your beautiful name.