Of Your Little Make-Believe House Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Teach me the names of flowers, will you,
Because I am done;
And your children are running towards the bus;
And I wish I had more time to say nothing
To you,
But your husband is coming home like a
Languid tornado
And he will take up all of your affection and love;
And put you into such a tizzy as to bring out all of
Your sisters from inside of you:
And all of you laughing at break-neck speed
All just for him,
This man of workman’s gloves and a smile of comely cinder.
That I will have nothing left to do but to stand outside
Of your little make-believe house and applaud.