The Footprints Of Anonymous Seashell Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh, what beauty spoken of that seems to be alive
While no one is looking—and after it is done—what is left of
Fried chicken in the grass in the last days
Before the fourth of July—
I know you've never been there- next to the cradle of
All of the mixed up stars:
You were in China—alone in Kindergarten watching the
Exorcist—I don't know how they showed it to you—
The communist party in your tenements -
Your mother chose to have an abortion and then she chose
To have you and then your brother—
I suppose that maybe she just chose to tell you this to
Comfort you, as you almost miscarried—
But this English is only the penultimate words on my lips,
And now I am dreaming—now I am a fanfare on a
Tarmac that doesn't have to believe—
And maybe I should have stayed at home—
And maybe the angels are taking off for different climates—
And all of this is a wound that doesn't heel—
Or it is just a shadow of an angel who herself is only infatuation
With the footprints of an anonymous seashell.