Who Am I To Say? Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Did you rent your paint for my name,
As the sea licked it away?
Weren’t you just the one candle burning in
The cardboard of our cheap play?
And now the city is fully wounded and baked
From a kiln of your fingerprinted
Clay,
And yet the waves come leaping, leaping out
Of the kennels of their combs,
Crying your name, crying your name and
Attributing to your false sciences
Each and every day; and I have made gold out
Of you, but I don’t even know who you are;
And I just want to swing and play badminton in
The wings of a heavy wind,
And who are you? But who am I to say?