With Your Help Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Joy to the ingénues- the bug bears,
The aces of the swags in the sky:
Joy to your lips that shall never die:
While I haven’t been keeping count of the hours
On the swings:
Why, I swear I don’t even know how much money we
Have made,
While the paper still burns,
And the airplanes still sing, and the penumbras bring in the
The fieldtrips of feral but kind things:
Maybe they bring in the bodies of your offspring:
Things who aren’t yet wearied and so sing:
They don’t even remember what tomorrow is Monday:
They just sit and clap beside the fire
And they call down the angels who burn there,
And maybe they know the keystones of heaven or at least
Purgatory;
And all of this time I’ve just been singing or moaning while
My father and his brother had a miraculous bout,
And I don’t even know what my dog is feeling now,
Alma:
But with your help I’ll find out.