That Very Thing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They seem to be made of me—the clouds floating above
The theaters of coquina until there is nothing to
Complain about—
And your breasts no longer lactate for your children—
And it is only I who sits here in this poor excuse of a theatre—
A long while after the Navajos and other Indians have
Paid for their liquor and gone home—
And in that same time, my father's dreams were nearly
Realized in these mountains—
As he kept holding his head up nearly bravely closer and
Closer and further away from the sun—
Until some wicked—wicked thing got him-
And the windmills turned—turned in their hypnosis—
And that was how that very thing got done.