Unanswerable Hellos Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ll pick-pocket in the black suites of Halloween—
I’ll look down into the great ovoid valleys where my father
Is turning his tractor for no other reason than he is
Perplexed,
And can’t figure out how to avoid selling it:
And I doubt I should really make love again before I die,
Or if I ever did good love, or was it that I just hid behind
The Mezuzah she hung on our doorway to keep out
The young, industrious bike-thieves;
And there are faces of wayward angels who take up the
Space where my face should be,
And lesser or great Indian chiefs are taking up my stool
Behind the glass exhibits underneath the Missouri Arch;
But it is like they have come around and discovered
That there are too many chiefs, and my scars shouldn’t
Be shown in public,
And there are no really good excuses for what I have done,
For cutting class and watching her leave the other way,
Pretending that there were topless angels schvitzing in the
Delusions of shadows cut up like pieces of a shivering cake
In between the cars and football field;
And if it was something like this served at their wedding,
I wasn’t there to know—because I don’t live there anymore,
And her proud mother and father have sold that affluent house
I use to swim and know her in, anyway.