The Captains Of All Of Their Hours Poem by Robert Rorabeck

These scars are here for a reason- they give me the docility of the grave;
And I don’t even have to have an execution;
I don’t even have to talk about the sky, since she is always flailing:
She is always having a goodtime, and her sisters are having a goodtime,
While we are all starving on our boats,
Our fingers in her weathered plums, and now my face is all read,
And I in love with Alma, my very soul, the flag of Mexico:
And what am I going to do about it, but go to the movie theatre on
Friday or Saturday:
I am not going to wear any jewelry, because look at all of these scars;
And now I suppose that I have to be hungry,
While the pitcher is mounting; and it has been several minutes since I
Have heard the power of the airplanes, and yet I guess that her magic
Is still hours, and in the night I imagine I can smell the jasmine of kidnappers,
Because there is so many names of jasmine; and her body disappears underneath
The eyes of the captains and all of their hours.