Languishing In The Sun Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Traffic passing over my head- rushing angels,
And I am homeless:
In my cathedral, tomorrow, there will be a flea market:
Can you not remember my name-
Crazy distillations as she takes off her brazier-
Maybe she is your mother-
Maybe she will take you a long way from here-
Even through the tadpoles’ metamorphosis-
Even through the echoes of the banshee’s high school-
Long and silently haunted tenements
Looking down-
And down- a cradle down there in the river so far
Away- a child without a mother- languishing in
The sun.