Foolish Gold Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Their parents had the appearance of impenetrable value-
The rumor was they were made out of real gold:
You couldn’t break your teeth on them,
But it was still painful
To embrace the process that was necessary
Just to be sure-

I used to hide my books on witchcraft under the
Bed. They didn’t find them until I ran away to
Michigan with Jordan-
That was where I used to live,
And slept the night in the back of my
Grandmother’s Toyota,
And forgot to keep a watch out for ghosts.

There was a graveyard there and there
Is a graveyard still-
Where the janitors still go weeping,
and a loch, but they called it
A lake, a great American lake cut up and entangled
By water skiers all with perfect skin;
But oh, how very pale;

And my great uncle, the physicist, the head of
His department, an ancient smile which doesn’t fade,
A beautiful house on a great American lake,
Fulfilled promises,
But tomorrow is the first of the month, April:
In ten days then I’ll have another year on the world,
The quietness of too many scars:

That will be some sort of jubilant holiday,
The best of its kind: No solicitors just the usual
Jew, Priest, and African American coming into the bar,
Except not so politely spoken,
And everybody drinking and pretending
That the rent isn’t due.