That Nothing Could Be Real Forever Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Unhealing wound, this me underneath your shadow,
Making my rounds in the city that was my cradle, and is proving
To be my tomb,
Friendless, but with necessity: I drive the truck to pay the bills,
And by night I sleep with my dog while I play
At masturbating and drinking from your fountains, Alma:
As I have done before,
And will do again until you are stolen from the sky, and my fort
Remains beaten, numberless, all of the hopes of my men taken
Down and laid out in the soft green fields
Where I always knew that nothing could be real forever.