That Could Not Be So Easily Sold Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You I’ve coined this kind of joy for:
Look out, the sun is going down; it almost caught your
Head;
See how the snakes slither up from the snags to taste
The last of it,
As the trucks leave, as even the Mexicans pack up to
Jaunt.
Crepuscule will come soon, you know, and then the
Mailboxes will cool, as all the roofs of the houses cool,
As the tar and shingles finish;
And the little girls commingle with the shadows, while
Their greater daddies drink;
And you are there, winnowed, spun out in séance,
Somehow flustered but still eager for your wedding,
Never taking into account of how your fanciful shadow has
Gone in with the others,
When I would have held out my hand with all my gold,
To catch you before the sun went away, to bask with the last of
It in your yard where your imprint rippled like something
That could not be so easily sold.