The Memories Of The Forgotten Prairie Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Life is not about facts,
But about becoming cold-hearted bonfires—
As the moon delivers itself to the feral
Cats on a platter,
And my wife stretches herself
Across the living room
That we share together, our baby in the castanet
Of her ribs—
And all of my school children
Gone to their various tinfoil grottos
All addressed in their make believe epaulets—
They seem fine this way
Or in whatever way that they are—
While dogs do not have to shave
Underneath the moon,
And pilots do not have to shave—
But the rabbits disappear from their
Magical hats beneath the moon
And other things—
Words that dissolve and become the
Magical roman candles for
The seas that forever believe that
Cannot forever exist anymore—
While the graveyards look pretty,
While there is nothing left to save—
And the moonbeams shimmer,
And the blue cats remain forever
Above the memories of the forgotten prairie.