Sleeping Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The meadows are filled with sleeping children:
Whom else would they be filled with,
I don’t know:
I make footprints high up in the snow, even when I
Am not even there,
And I think of you, Alma, laid down in your brown
Skin like a bible from Mexico;
And I wish that I could stop writing about you, but
I just don’t know what else I would do:
But I know that by tomorrow the cars will be
Waking up again,
And the entire world will rise, and the mothers
Will kiss their babies,
And the stewardesses will show some thighs:
And I will dream of you coming to in
This world again,
Alma: it is the only the that it is, and it isn’t even real.