In The Missplaced Playgrounds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The tigers and kidnapped children,
Paint by numbers the clouds
That are above the islands—
They dissembark but remain close to where it is
They believe to be their salvations,
And in south florida,
There are girls whom partake of the fine and
Illusive weathers—
They seem to become a part of the beating hearts
Of the waves,
The salt water enigmas and the carrossels of
The cenotaphs of sea horses—
But what am I doing right now
But dreaming of other homes and other
Graveyards—
Soon I will become just as forgotten as my
Grandfather,
To join the sleeping children in the bedroom of
My ancestors’ skeletons in the missplaced
Playgrounds on the other side of the ever constant
Road.