Parks smolder like little girls upset for Valentine’s <br />Day; <br />And I go out from their Sabbath School Grottos and watch <br />Them French Kissing fresh Thom’s in the parking lot; <br />And they last for so long, until once again they go back inside <br />And start out anew: <br />And I am left alone in the gray undertones of the pines: <br />My shoes are almost gone, <br />My sweet eyes hung over like censers hung up on hat racks, <br />Their chains the new somnolence of an opulent cat: <br />And I wonder about you, and where you really live: <br />I already know you get up every day and attend your work like <br />Love, <br />But where you really live, I don’t know: I will never know who <br />You are, or looking up, who is traveling with you on your airplanes; <br />I cannot explain enough for you: How I have failed in the easiness <br />Of the air-conditioning, how I am especially failing for you tonight; <br />But I once fenced and beat an Olympic fencer, or his son <br />Before I ran away to Michigan, but now I am myself all beat, <br />And the words just come, but they are not the words that were <br />Best meant for you; and you are off again in your night <br />In your rose colored states of love; and I know to whom you give <br />Your body to every night, and whom washes your clothes in the <br />Grottos of blissful doves, but I still don’t know whom you <br />Really love.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/whom-i-really-love/
