From The Pressing Conflagrations Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Our bodies wake up from the pressing conflagrations of
Fathers and mothers;
At first we have so many needs, but then we wish that we were not
Here;
Because we have seen you slipping on your sweet belly through
The weeds:
You all but stuck your tongue out at us and hissed, and then
Went off following his footprints:
Are his father and mother better than ours? We bought a house for
You on your birthday:
A yellow house with flowers, and we apologize for being born
So far above the equator our skin is so pale and sickly
Compared to yours;
Or was it just that his father and mother knew how to work their
Fires better than ours.