Where My Hope Can Be Found Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The bottle is emptied as if your milk has dried,
And I have been saying for so long it seems that I have
Become an echo of myself,
While the buses are still turning and returning home,
Like woe begotten merry go rounds,
And you can walk down the street and pick up your
Children and taken them home
While the sunlight hits and rebounds, and you cast your
Eyes a little further across the esplanades of ground:
Alma,
But if you are not home, nor anywhere around,
Then where, oh where, can my hope be found?