The Sky Is Not Really Swinging With Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Days and days of fireless interludes,
Where everyone can survive, and everyone is
Doing something,
And some of the women are very fine:
They seem to get even more precious after I haven’t
Seen them for awhile,
And they are just getting further and further away;
And I am a boy again on a drunken swing-set under the
Precious moon: How she is stilling my light like the moon
Is stealing the sun on the other side of the world,
Deep and bosomy way back into mountains like
Backyards,
And no one remembers who I am anymore:
Grey haired, quietly feral, feet sore, eyes quiet and not
Seeming too distant, but very distant:
Down your avenue right now, snow flakes falling like a
Christmas carol- the alligator nudging my leg to see if
I have awakened to have some fun,
But I am too drunk of your spirit, but you are just
Like a goldfish already dying in a plastic bag, like the moon
Swimming, won from surreal midway,
And I am just climaxing repeatedly on these altruistic swings,
And the sky is not really swinging with me.