For One Moment Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Days percussion all week,
And white men take turns climbing
Ladders,
And turning the other cheek:
And it isn’t long until they are perfectly
Fitted in the jobs and punctuations,
And the sweet nuances of suburbia:
They look at the same,
And the city builds all up,
The butterflies first metamorphosis and
Die:
My sister went away upon the back of
A bull who happened to be some
God,
And I can’t remember who I am,
Or how I got here,
But the portraits of the vinyl interior
Of classic cars aren’t half bad;
The hallways of high school the echoing
Coffins of the early labors slipping
Into the auriferous sounds,
Like trumpets that bled out into the air
And then fell like death knells
Into the ground,
The earth tombs and crèches of popinjay
Profits;
But all of this is meaningless when all
I wanted was all but to
Hold her hand for one moment.