The Manless Cannons Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It hurts that your pain is gone from my day,
While the cataracts still dive across the banishing eyes
Of cars;
The puppy moves in your lap little tears:
Childless, what will have to prove, when the day is over,
And the motel occupied,
The beds spindled like pregnant mothers or
Hippopotamuses for
Christmas,
And all of the countries left; the sweet savannah deployed,
The blush gone from the jungles,
And all of it is the question moving on a rush through the
Orange groves,
While the fort lies abandoned underneath the infinitely
Magnified clouds,
Green and building, waiting for the manless cannons to
Hearken.