This Cold Letter Day Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She comes towards me while I drive:
My work, with the sun in my eyes- telling fabulous stories
Of a country that we, of course defeated:
That I have never been to, but once or twice:
And I think that all of her uncles she be pilots, half drunken,
On fabulous airplanes:
This alma, a muse- toying with the elements bruised
In the armpits of the sooty stars:
She goes up for a ways, turning around on her mark,
Never forgetting how she plays:
Watching soap operas in her room- thoughts of me slipping away
As she eats the last of the strawberries I sent to her this
Cold letter of a day- on another valentines.