From The Tables Of Divine Providence Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In a bliss,
My wife and child lie sleeping
Entangled in the next bedroom
Of this apartment
Somewhere on the outskirts of Shanghai—
And in her belly, another child—
Somewhere, the first collection of cells,
As a bouquet in her belly,
Trying to help me out,
Just the primordial blessing, telling or pretending
To tell me that I have been doing
Alright,
As the sun hangs down like a dog going through
The doorways of the kissless stars—
And somewhere in China,
While I have been writing of her,
A billion or so some odd souls lay sleeping, opened
Mouths on their backs like lizards basking as
The moonlight spills over the Great Wall of China—
And I don’t have to believe in this
Or anything—
Not in helicopters or firemen or the rooftops of
Their restaurants—
And not what they taught me in school:
I just have to look down into your eyes
And see you staring back at me,
As light is kidnapped from both of our worlds
To consider the possibilities
Laid out philosophically, like nude tourists
Basking for the waves,
Like dogs leaping for the scraps thrown
From the tables of divine providence.