Like Our Dogs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Clinging to the broken memories upon cowardly buses
And broken airplanes,
Like toys of shrapnel in the green yards fallen from the
Astralplanes,
And what am I doing but recreating my mother:
What am I doing but picking up shells from the creatures
I have massacred to show to your eyes
In this butcher shop of daydreams we make use of all
The materials:
We make candles for one time virgins; and it is as if we
Make contact with their eyes at great distances:
And we sing to them the mute man’s lullabies:
We always sing to them;
And we feed the dogs, and they lick our hands and
We remember the places where we skipped school and
Lived;
And like our dogs we are satisfied.