Just A Boy Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Its so easy to think of you
In the decadent art where all of the butterflies
Have closed upon the flowers-
It seems as if they are in metamorphosis with
Their cousins
Along the eaves of the carport in the crepuscule
Where your mother still does the laundry
Like a saint, like a martyr-
And a Christmas tree is stood up somewhere in the
House,
Dying beautifully for its pagan joy
And the lamps still light with kerosene
And you are just a boy.