Whom I Really Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Parks smolder like little girls upset for Valentine’s
Day;
And I go out from their Sabbath School Grottos and watch
Them French Kissing fresh Thom’s in the parking lot;
And they last for so long, until once again they go back inside
And start out anew:
And I am left alone in the gray undertones of the pines:
My shoes are almost gone,
My sweet eyes hung over like censers hung up on hat racks,
Their chains the new somnolence of an opulent cat:
And I wonder about you, and where you really live:
I already know you get up every day and attend your work like
Love,
But where you really live, I don’t know: I will never know who
You are, or looking up, who is traveling with you on your airplanes;
I cannot explain enough for you: How I have failed in the easiness
Of the air-conditioning, how I am especially failing for you tonight;
But I once fenced and beat an Olympic fencer, or his son
Before I ran away to Michigan, but now I am myself all beat,
And the words just come, but they are not the words that were
Best meant for you; and you are off again in your night
In your rose colored states of love; and I know to whom you give
Your body to every night, and whom washes your clothes in the
Grottos of blissful doves, but I still don’t know whom you
Really love.