The Paychecks Of Lost Men Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Dying figments unsuited for these hours
Sit underneath the dabs of wasps,
Or at the corners of her cheek where she lives:
In the pornography of rusting cars,
Or at the sad confines of the canal:
Floating along in her trailer park underneath
The washout heavens of those
Billboards trying to sell their god to the highway-
When she smiles, a long ways off,
She can see her children even if they cannot
Recognize her- and it is her art form to do this,
And to sit beautifully alone,
Pleasuring herself as if she believed in ghosts:
Like my own childhood where I remember sitting
With my mother and reading books
Underneath skyscrapers and landmines of sunshine:
Or leaning over to see our doppelgangers in the
Canal,
The tadpoles swimming with the paychecks of
Lost men: reticent to transform,
They remain in my childhood long after I have gone.