The Purple Tomorrows Of Our Violet Yesterdays Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Reindeer underneath the windmills
Drinking at the faces who exist for awhile in the valleys
As yellow as the reflections of the sun
In the wheels of bicycles: and anyway, this is how it goes
In the yellow flowers of arcades:
Or this is how it doesn’t have to be, buried up to our necks
In the gold mines of her wrists
While the hummingbirds pirouette at her water fountains
Waiting for her just desserts
While she is too busy giving me hickeys, and waiting for her
Lunch: Camarones del Diablas look so good on her lips
And I swear to her that she is a red riding hood that
Never has to go home to
Her husband, and her children: she can bring them over anyways
And teach me how to do laundry and cook enchiladas
And we can look out together as the school buses cross the
Street before the paper thin headstone of the pet cemeteries
In their imitative estuaries:
And then we can turn inwards anyways and kiss each others’
Lips and believe in the purple tomorrows of our violet yesterdays.