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

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.