The Book By Mark Twain Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Hands in the composures making birds
For lighthouses
Distracting her in the middle of a
Rainstorm in the middle of
The classes in the archaeologies of our high school;
Alma, you went to school for
Ten years and then you
Rode a bus across the frontera
And made love and babies;
And now you live across the tracks:
The train tracks and the dog tracks:
You live in a house your
Rabbits disappeared behind,
Which made your mother, Rosa,
Happy because they were eating her mango tree;
How unlucky for them
And you told me today that your
Father Marcelino has a pistola,
So I shouldn’t come over
Even if it is just to leave flowers in your
Mailbox,
And it is good that I
Am too tired anyways,
But I am drinking,
Trying to swim in your love,
While you sleep with your man, darling,
In your little room
With your daughter Heidi,
Which was the name he wanted;
The little golden key that
Returned you to him,
And now your house is
So quiet and your sisters are sleeping,
And maybe your son
Michael has passed out
Beside the book by
Mark Twain,
Which I bought for him.