Through Your Unspeaking Roof Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In your days of making friends I don’t suppose you counted
On how many hands you’d have to hold,
Your eyes as brown as a politician’s sun, until the night slipping
Over the gold-dog world and taking away all of
Its fireworks and fanfares,
And all of the lights that we were so lucky to breathe during the
Day;
And returning you to him, dolled into the playgrounds of your
Bedroom where I can only guess of what he does there every night to
You,
Brown-silver as the moon inside your window, even while I slept
Inside your house, and the television made a paramour of your shadows;
And maybe five trucks slept on your little lawn,
Overgrown but fanciful, as if this was Mexico:
I could only suppose what sort of love he made to you while my
Heart beat down like the hammer of a butterfly is morris code of brail
Through your unspeaking roof.