The Last Time You Thought Of Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Quieting in your night’s appliances,
Dressed for auction, I think about what you can sell
Now:
In your eyes the unction of your powwow,
Tiny little daughter like a gun or wishbone at your hip,
But your father is a flag of junked bones at the summit,
And you’ve never been up to kiss him with
You eyes open:
Step up and feel the naked dressing room of all those
Angels;
It is where you belong, Sharon: And I am not lying.
This is just how I pretend to survive,
As some kind of river, bragging to myself as I flood with
All your children;
And your husband doesn’t even drive a truck,
And doesn’t know anything about my America,
How I can move my body thinking of nothing all day long
But your body from time to time, Sharon:
That is all there is: No God, but the divine providence of
Your body suckling at the hip,
Sharon;
And water-parks in season and water-melons and the wheels
Go round and round,
Sharon; but when was the last time you thought of me,
Or looked your father in the eyes when he was not around.