Their Care Weathered Bones Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Promenades of good intent, and I have a house
But no occupation except for
The daycare of my grayed adolescence, as Alma is not
Alone in the house her father promised her,
As the green cannons ring with her favorite color;
And I am not coming down until I have to go to sleep
And wake up,
While some trucks will move in the night, and the
Good people will make money,
And the kidnappers will nap in peace, like the Mexicans;
And I will not have to do anything more until my
Blood settles,
And the taboos recede again, passing over their cerulean
Estuaries and back into the courtyards of school,
Where the good girls are playing across the
Landscaping and Cobble stone: where they will still be
Playing,
Far into the cenotaphs of evening, after all of the butterflies
Have drowned,
And the moths shroud the pallid estuaries of their
Care weathered bones.