Turning Off All My Lights Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Maybe you are just another little boy and this is
My insecure monument to your amusing roadways:
They go forever deeper into the indistinguishable bric-a-brac
Of your landscaping singsong;
And maybe that makes my parents really pissed when my
Parents finally get home all tapped out and unable to fly;
They sink like heavy wishes that once floated
For you sometime after kindergarten, and I really loved you
In that daycare; but now you are all strung out
And you have too many children for my two bedrooms:
I still live in a really holy place for you, even when I cannot
Take off and darkness blooms and the pelicans sing with the
Eyes of swiftly repeated ancestors;
And I know before I even start out that I have been singing to
The stillborn bedroom, because you are not here anymore:
You are wrapped in your husband’s casual soiree, and it must
Be a wonderful thought to know whose grave will singsong your
Name, the way the smooth granite of tombstones call out
To you and your children: you will all sleep together at the end of
Some dusty road, as you will all float together in the sky and
Play a chorus so sickly sweet as to be incestual; as I cry out,
And turning off all my lights for you, curl into an indistinguishable
Ball in the darkness, and pray hopelessly.