The Edge Of Their Fingers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My tears salted the rum that is now in a glass
On the weekend,
And in the semidarkness the housewives lounge next
To the pools
Getting everything they want- and the bobcats
Fight with themselves:
They are really inconsequential underneath the airplanes:
And if there ever was rosebushes,
They have passed away into mirages
As the lights of a carousel enfold the make-believe
Like a crèche- I drink as I think about you:
But I don’t think- I hear the airplanes
Like the lips of tadpoles,
Spreading their bouquets of silver legs across the world-
And very soon, I too will be leaping across them,
Remembering the sport without reason that
Is bought mindlessly over the holidays
And spent all at once
In another game of chance at the edge of
These fingers.