Misplaced In My Heart Poem by Robert Rorabeck

She lives here:
Growing in the orchard of all of the world-
A prison,
Like the words on the lips for her
Left to dry and
Evaporate- her brown skin ripples
Like the blue gills:
She thinks nothing of it- and the dirt
Roads corrugate:
She thinks nothing of the remaining shells,
Or her beauty in the motifs
OF clouds:
Soon her father will be home into
The subconscious of her Mexico
Putting a gun to her MOTHER’S head:
But she will not
Thinking of, nor the ferris wheel she
Misplaced in my heart.