Single Thought Of Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

uses of new dementia—and I have passed through
Here—the path I have taken has become
Like the littlest story—and the things I have defeated
Have become my friends:
A rainbow, a centipede, a man with purple wings:
And we sing together along our innocuous roads—maybe we
Are near the sea, but we neither care or comprehend—
Maybe I will be fired tomorrow—
Maybe the lamplight will build into a brilliant nest over
The fireplace of a lighthouse,
And the windmills will fill their bouquets with her perfumes;
But the rivers will always run south,
Trying to fill their mouths with sea water, and the songbirds
Will follow them, probably all of the way to Mexico—
And she will awaken, mortally to raise a daughter
Who will, I am supposing, never have a single thought of me.