My Abandoned Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Love in the elbows of Christmas trees:
Getting up and trying to look
Good
While the Mexicans are picking watermelons
And cantaloupes,
And you are with your husband again,
And all of your brown family: maybe your eyes
Have been saying that you have been busy
In love,
But they are lying- as my words fall to the suburban
Field mowed softly underneath the airplanes:
Like paper wetted too far by your abandoning lips,
And all of that sweet moisture carried underground
To feed their queen:
As I awaken one last time without the carnivals
Of your eyes to save
The souls of my abandoned children.