The Unwanted Prayers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It doesn’t have to end this way,
But it is all that I have to give: this is my
Profession underneath the homeless overpass
After midnight, and before
The Ferris Wheel of flea markets begins:
This is my song to the moonlight and to the
Pigeons, whilst the ice-cream trucks
Are mouth less,
And you are home with your children in your
Brown reservoir: you seem so far away from me now,
While I have spent the best of my last dimes
Trying to keep time with you
Until I got sick and had enough, or the weather
Came in baying its sick proofs,
And the wheels returned to houses, as the heavens returned
To the throats all of the unwanted prayers which
Had inevitably been given up into them.