The Journalists Of His Disbelief Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Another try into the brigades of light—another day
Falters into a dictionary or a collection of
Museums: I remember selling Christmas trees across
The highway from a comic book store,
And being collected to my father's echo that runs on
And on even though his life his almost
Over and he is nothing special—just another collection of
Light in that same museum that is always
Failing—after he is fallen, what will gather around him
To see that he is no longer there? Nothing but the
Same old things—sunlight and butterflies and rainbows,
But nothing he ever believed in—nothing he could
Tell time with or make money with—
But he will remain perpetually an echo for all time
In openness and wounds— in fact displayed to all of
The journalists of his disbelief.