Our Eager Young Possibilities Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Kelly wrote a poem to her mother I did not
Read;
But at night I guess I ejaculate the same way,
But to the girl and her friends,
The little fat roses I am too afraid to give away
In the immense daylight of our
Cages;
The way grizzly bears may stop and sniff before
A cerulean tent way deep in the permafrost
Of its alluvial planes, before
It gets down to its businesses of dismembering;
And I don’t love Kelly,
Not in the way I used to, the way a young child
Expects and loves his crackerjack prizes,
Even though they are not enough;
But I suppose I could- She is a beautiful woman
Who can spot dolphins and manatees just as
They go about licking the world,
Metamorphosing practically out on the surface world,
Like adolescents unsure of their graduation;
Her husband masculinely hung and can work on tractors;
But when she starts out with her eyes when
We are alone into the midday crepuscule of our busted
Lip playground,
I like the fact that I don’t know anyone else around,
And what we are doing lasts just as briefly above the earth,
Almost gloriously, a welding torch,
A fix for those angels, before we separate and merge into
Traffic,
Forgetting the effects of that harvest’s kind gravity,
Whose impermanence reminded us of our eager young
Possibilities.