Their Wants For Nothing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don’t have to worry about it: it will come anyways,
As gravestones arisen over night and the museums and the cemeteries
That talk about them, but not I,
Since I haven’t been doing that great of stuff,
Just making my rounds beneath the cradles of far away nebulas
Or wherever they are:
Great motes of almost nothing pillaging in the void,
While down here in the insignificant wealth all of the sweet girls
Who are calling for more sweets,
Or they are out riding, and trying to call our bluffs:
The mountains over them like a castanet, the great bays and deltas
Their bibs: the airplanes their jewelry:
And they go about with the bandoleers of cowboys and stick up men,
And I crawl into their earth praying for the fractions of warmth
They spill and let waste from their overabundance,
And great feast of life, like the dog of an aboriginal king,
Hoping for but one petal of a rose in a garden that swarms with
The stifling mirages that make such sweet honey attending to their
Great loves and their wants for nothing.