These Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Thieves in the dark bosque, counting cards down
The eventual runoff of the ruddy mountains, and all of
Life clinging on,
Suckling at the tit of the water fountain,
As the possums grin ferociously underneath the balls and
Cannons of fireworks, not really understanding at
All what is going on:
And one day soon all of our little sisters will have to
Come on home,
As the house is cauldronously empty, but warm:
And we can watch gray cartoons together on the vermilion
Rugs,
And what will it matter if eventually we will have to learn
How to spell, and then set off to find professions.
For now we can fold paper airplanes and share our dreams,
As the alligators pullulate downhill from all the vacant
Golf courses,
And we don’t have to know anything at all of the lost virginity
Of all of these things.