Proud Of Us Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They said I was a sancho in the land of
Milking-blood-
The white sands, the caverns of Pieta
The dry grottos, the husks of virgins shivering
Like dead Christmas trees.
Now I know why they never come up,
Why Sharon doesn’t have to think of the
Water-colored paintings I lost for her:
All the old-time settlers are in trailer parks,
The cantankerous wives have slipped over
Sweet canals and into other men’s parks,
But what about all of that our mothers
Promised us-
The sun blinding us with snake-oil and
Years of ancient gravity:
Bending down upon the earth as if a lustrous
Woman,
Orchids, orchids pretending to be in the sand-
Orchids, and her children,
Nothing but promises. The horses are grinning,
But not because they are proud of us.