The Hidden Yards - Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A womb of a pledge of allegiance no one
Stands for—
In a sky full of ancestral promises without a single
Drop of rain
Over a schoolyard just as empty of busses as
It is of children—
And I lie in the fever of the gutters of broken
Promises—married,
But my wife is not my muse: she is something
Forever more sincere,
Certainly I do not deserve her—
As I drink liquor and remember a clothes line
Stretched across the hidden yards where
You told me your mother's rabbits disappeared.