What Might Be Its Worth Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And it goes away, as paper snowflakes melt for my
Grandmother,
As the warmest of fires melt in my stomach-
By morning I will have more scars,
Fabulous and collecting like gold in a forsaken bank-
And otherwise, the flowers will turn towards the sun,
And the traffic will return home,
Fleeing in their numbers, the homeless men staying out
Underneath the moon, fleeing themselves,
The alligators smiling as bright as death, mindless,
And absolutely lucky, not even having to think that this
Is their place- the traffic scratching a pitiful fire
On concrete, burying the cenotaphs of
Mindless playboys as deep as a fingernail-
The queen of ants waiting in her foot deep abode,
The knight of her paradise coming into her
To re-appropriate the population after Christmas,
The dead buried five feet beneath her,
Curling their toes-
Their hair the garland for super-heroes, as Saturn revolves alongside
The earth, and birds take their baths beneath the trees,
The sun settling against the crowns of houses, counting its change,
Figuring to itself what might be its worth.