The Saints Of Your Joy Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Your daughter’s body was sick today, and I could not
Help it
With the customers coming in and buying corn fifteen for
A dollar until my parents painted over the sign:
And we watched each other while I carted around the
Green island fichus and sang the sweetness of
The theoretical mountains I keep you in,
Your brown body having its own prominences the size of
Dolls,
And I have desires of buying a bicycle, or taking you on
My shoulders to the island in the center of the
Lake Worth Lagoon,
But I am happy now that you don’t have time to read
The lies I’ve been singing you- Your young daughter is sick
And needs your attention,
But Sunday is her birthday and I am going to be glad to work
Your shift:
I’m going to work hard to find the work you named her after in
Spanish:
Heidi is her name, and she is your daughter, and her world will
Soon heal and fill up with sweet things in the refrigerator
And with the saints of your joy.