The Last Of The Two Of Our Loneliest Of Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Last Of The Two Of Our Loneliest Of Children



In love in early October it rains- -
Baseball diamonds and angels tears falling down,
Collected by those whose jobs it is to look up
And collect the detritus of angels-

It is a fall since high school, and I am collecting
My own remembrances again,
Underneath an umbrella, invented in prehistorical times
By a wife in China-

The steps before my marriage have no decorations-
And she grew up upon this concrete-
In a land as far away from here as the moon,

And there is nothing else as undeniably puzzling as her joints
Dissolving upon the salts of a dove: e
She cleans the house, she does other good things.
I get her to pay for her own insurance; she is a new driver-

She cannot deny the waves which have assaulted her,
As if she were an early explorer of Florida- A Catholic cenotaphic,
Quilled as full of arrows as roses have bouquets-

And all of the nights of her lovely moons are stocked
Full of bouquets-
Dying flowers that drink for a moment
The pools beneath her eyes-

In the blink of an eye, she is my wife-
And she stumbles away from here fearing my memories-
An excitement something so far away from here that is worth
Nearly 600,000 dollars-

While I dream of other girls swirling within the caesuras,
She makes money for our children whom
Are already here-

And she awakens, starting out again into the daytime shows,
Singing the songs of communist propagandas that seem to have no effect
Upon her-

I drink two beers and a bottle of wine, and stretch out like
A blue collar minx-
The canals are green and cold and made by both the goods and evils
Of men-

And then, upon the streets and concrete shoulders of our towns,
The shadows play together
With the last of the two
Of our loneliest of children.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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