I cry in my house in Florida: <br />I cry and try not to breathe: the virginsita sits in my <br />Foyer as green as an aloe’s sheath: <br />And the cars gossip so loudly through the day, <br />But at night, and deep at night they have such very little to <br />Say: <br />Like Alma’s love for me, they sleep, in the grottos of their <br />Love, <br />Wishing they had courage to end the incredible loneliness <br />Of my parade, <br />While all the sky puts on a play before getting teary eyed <br />And coming down as rain, <br />And my truancy of words remembers a high school it never <br />Believed it, <br />So it rides stolen bicycles up to the roofs of super men, <br />And there it seems to loll forever, <br />Trying to become Alma’s favorite color, while the alligators <br />Turn purple, <br />And their virgins put off their lights, figuring that all of <br />Their knights have turned far too old to care for them: <br />And the moon cups and whispers to the wildflowers <br />Disturbed by no other men and yet utterly beautiful deep in <br />Their airy beds high up in that Colorado.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/high-up-in-that-colorado/
