Over The Happenstance Of The Moment Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I seem invest in your shadow,
Thought I am here,
Resting after your cadaver,
And if your cards get low enough,
Eventually,
Forever,
I will be glad to sell the echo of your
Soul back to you
Far to soon for you to reconnoiter
With the white caprice—
We will make a Christmas out of Halloween,
For this you will know forever—
That my words are small
And infinite
And I like to play them across the living
Room floor,
And they seem to dance forever,
Just the ants with the prisms
But soon they will make us millionaires
In our utter abandonment
And, at least,
We won’t have to go down tomorrow
Fight like cannibals atop the glaciers
Without any airplanes,
And I will be able to meet with your eyes
For at least one more moment—
And prove
For a second that we are yet right here—
And my child seems to exist forever
In the perpetuity of the hallows and the
Nests of carports
Before burning whatever infinity is given
Over before him
To the places that he once had to
At least pretend to preside
Over the happenstance of
The moment.