Spilling their contemplations down my throat, <br />I think of our honeymoon in Shangri-La— <br />Of all of the plasticine bedrooms attended underneath the <br />Porcelain moon, as my hand found your ghostish thigh <br />And knew who you were in the fermented darkness, <br />While my thoughts wondered back across the airplanes <br />Like skipping stones, <br />To some ghost of a park in California, <br />Where I left my dream that way behind— <br />Where I couldn’t look at my face, ruined in my post- <br />Adolescents— <br />And all of those dreams I had forgotten with me <br />As I drove back to Arizona— <br />The lost tankards of dreams—and now, in this <br />House in the middle of my life, <br />New accoutrements to the sports loneliness find their <br />Place inside my lips that speak of the whispers <br />That nest inside my mind.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-sport-s-loneliness/
