Proof That Is Lost From The Blindness Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Why not a river going her way, wound
Like the suburban tropics, languid, tangled—all of
The evidence that it needs—
And in this plays you can sometimes go to
Sometimes the beautiful elements that you've forgotten—
There in the shadows, trailer parks of your
Poorest relatives—
And in the upheaval of cypress arms—the transients of
Your ancestors—proof that is lost from the blindness
Of our vision—where your childhood might
Have been, barefooted, straggling latch-keyed
Down a road all of the prettier cars refused to drive upon.