Of Its Natural Catastrophe Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Made of soft illusions, the boys play baseball
Inside the backyards of school—
And my son nods off into his grandfather’s birthday,
Wishing for something—
Maybe to return to the Platonic Realm
Where he once lingered, a zygote riding a zoetrope
Of all joy—where Buddha played, potbellied,
With the silverware of a make believe housewife:
But up in the morning, the clouds all purple and
Pink clam shells, running like gasoline over
The graveyards,
Falling into another pit of her memories,
Where each wave is a beautiful creature trying to
Find itself in the roiling schoolyards of its natural catastrophe.