That I Don'T Suppose Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alma,
I have spent all of my tinfoil like a plug into the
Saw grass:
Alma, I have sold so many things, but now the tents that
I sold them underneath are deflating:
They wish to change for you:
Alma, they wish to know the residue of your soul,
And the cars are not pretty- Alma, these things that we think we need,
That your children will once more think that they need,
And the dreams will finally come on under the soft bellies of airplanes,
And you will never
Know me, Alma, because I am too needy and too strange:
I will hide out in the woods of your old,
Mexico, I will hide out in the quiet and immobile bodies, because that is
Just what I am, and I want to use my arms to shelter your
Children,
Alma, because I get my resurrection just from your eyes,
Alma,
And I get my wealth from everything that I don’t suppose you will ever
Give to me.