Of Fallen Needles Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sweet mineral room of a talking skull,
You linger over my desk as the sky ticks-
Echoes of girls on the swings
Over the rain puddles that dry before lunch
And leave the shallow declivities the
Mexican women perpetually carry their
Newborns over to sit them atop the mat
Of fallen needles and play with them
As the red clay dries on the riverbank
Across the road and the alligators watch the
Traffic as it moves.