Making It From Here Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the fluctuating highlights of a vagrant park,
Falling in with ghosts- I am so ashamed-
I have runaway and I have nothing else to do.
The sky is upside down, according to the way its
Fingers run through the trees, as if through a
Tall woman’s hair;
And I am very close to where my mothered berthed
Me, but she has gone and I grow weak:
I don’t have anything to sell, having spent my last
Fireworks just for glee. I want to plagiarize-
I’ll be accused of it anyways, listening to the little
Children’s echoes who swept little-footed through here
All day; it is very hard to perceive how the world is
Slanting, or to choose from which angle for to grieve.
Her tires are crackling on their way home, and soon
She’ll slip into the restive suits of her work- those
Families like dun hives beside the rivers and the creaks;
And I have no business being here for the world is
Perpetually on the move, being encouraged through the
Shadows like birds through the seasons. Swinging,
I can see my toes almost approach the sky, but the night
Is becoming cold, and it is warm delusion to think that
I can ever make it from here.