The Rich Layers Of Unawares Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Young girls sweating out in their tree houses of
Steam, or I suppose that they do:
And your second youngest child is a little girl named Gracie;
And she stares up into the places of sky over the
Cankers of citrus;
And the airplanes leap and emote;
And in the trailer, your reciprocate with your husband,
The strange but expected species underneath the pinpricks
Of so many stars
And I am like one of their satellites to you;
I see you in the parks of darkness,
And look at strange clusters of coral:
I wait to listen to you, and I admire your ear; and you wear
Sunglasses, which hide your eyes,
Though I think you should never do this; and you shouldn’t
Smoke;
And I forgot to ask you today if you’d permed your hair,
Or what that signified;
But even still the satellites beeped down their signals;
And Gracie slept and then fawned somewhere,
Drawing little things shades of vermilion and maybe
Grizzly Bears:
I wander what she was drawing in the world you made her in,
Mother and daughter deep and drowsy,
So narcoleptic and utterly beautiful and captured in the
Rich layers of unawares.