The Carnivals Of Plastic Indians Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don’t think any of this is pretty:
Folding up paper airplanes with bloody fingers
And sending them over
A world of a few feet:
Over the carnivals of plastic Indians
And dye cast cars:
Not even over a single house-wife:
Not even over the grave of a cat—
But this is the life of a child, sunbathing
In a yard filled up with only one paper
Tree,
And the rest of the illusions scattered with
The lazing Mexicans amidst the pine trees—
The blue gills in another word,
In the pool down the slope
Only a few feet away.