Made Of Their Contentment Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They say in their slumber many things- great things
The size of nothing,
As the parks lay empty save for the preternatural
Light somehow discovered
By the geniuses of men- the swing sets of naked
Saddles waiting underneath
The cerulean gaze of churches, as you never
Come around,
Though your remain somewhere in the shoulders
Of hear, serving your drinks to
Boys and wolves-
Happy to be made of their contentment:
Well, I am sure that you will never be made of me.