Seasons Of Insignificance Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Where were you on Saturday? For
Any day of the week is arbitrary. Shouldn’t
Recall how astonished I was to see you
Coming out of the library,
Carrying cheap literature as a stopper for
Your heart, displaying the easy words to
Make love at noon-time with the preachers
And tennis players of their court,
So naked and near the sea, how the waves
Roll back and forth like conductors,
Now I’ve come beneath you, speaking my
Little pleas; they might be lies, they may show
Up as failures, but she has gone away
And married the lawyer, conjoined names in
Hebrew observe holidays I no longer care for,
And you were just the little sport flirting on
The swings; back and forth was your motion,
Tempting the thoughts of flight; I’d thought
I’d see you out on the steps or under the blue light,
But when I came up under you, to live as your
Foundation, you floated away because you’d had
A fonder sensation, to follow men just as finely
As you seemed, to express the natural migrations
Of one’s eyesight, for you’d had many an adventure
Remembered by your fingerprints,
But you hadn’t opened anything more than casually;
And you hadn’t though of me at all, as the light
Fell so briefly, in that moment we passed each other
On the steps, in hindsight, a pseudo-significance,
In a season you found so irrelevant and amusing,
Where I cared for nothing more than this,
Now, I have lost you, dear, without even a kiss,
But what’s more, haven’t you even thought of loss,
But sing like a songbird too late in winter,
Twittering gaily, but oh what more have you lost,
To not even considered to think as this,
Thus you bloom arbitrary, perhaps to produce in even
More seasons of insignificance,
Twittering gaily as the snow falls hoping soon
For its kiss.