With Their Husbands And Their Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lost in the sections of an oval race
As sunlight falls on the wrong side of my face,
And the housewives come home
To their vineyards along the groves of the sea-
Like young goddesses upon their seahorses
Who never have to think of me.
Eventually they will slip away, their metamorphosis
Migrating,
And they will make love underneath mountains
Beneath the keystones of their ruddy peeks:
Never suspecting the mysteries of the higher aeries:
That I was once above them, looking down
Counting my loves to a lightning storm.
And in the morning they arose with their husbands
And their children
And drove the few blocks that it took to buy ice-cream.