The Gold In Fort Knox Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You sleep next to your husband and sigh
At his breath,
And the snowflakes fall, and the wine
Comes,
And your little daughter plays her fingers
Through your hair
And nudges your tit like a fox does
Plums and scuppernongs;
And I don’t know you,
And I don’t know my father, but I care to know,
While the airplanes ripple,
While girls on them seem to be mirages,
Beautifully pale women being sold into slavery in
North Africa underneath the missing nose of
That very sphinx
Made to strut and dance for entire caravans of carless
Men,
And coming in their ways to liking it,
Eventually gossiping of what they have seen,
Like the boys who happened out of the very shells of
Opal mythology, and the waves
And woke up and strutted like pervasive chickens
Or cocks and made love to the two young
Swedish mothers honeymooning on the beaches
Their tits all golden and strummed like
All the gold in fort knox.