In The Little Things That You Have Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Absorbed like our penchant for slavery,
Amber-dark skin reeking of liquor and acid:
I see you there in the darkest pinafore,
Holding your daughter over the scrub, and the
Leaking tongues of vampires and foxes:
I have sawed at suicide all day, while the sun dripped
Like full-blown yoke through a tall canyon of
Clouds;
People moved like werewolves; their coffins rolled
Like easily justified houses; and there are so many
Mausoleums for sale like regal cenotaphs moted by ceiling fans,
And the unjustified ridicule of their inevitable fathers;
And I think of that tattoo on your leg in the briars,
And I starve;
And the moon pulls me so I can see past the midnight
Guardrails where all of the students’ bikes are restive:
The yard well kept, the bricks so red-
And you are there on a bench like any number of ghosts,
Counting your want for children,
Gladdened in the little things that you have.