Tinsel Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Laid in the corners of the fine
Fire field,
I used to consider in midday all
The things I could
Steal
From the cardboard chest,
Plastic toys that
Represented the real-
But your lady’s heart is real,
So real,
And yet waking up so far
A field,
I still hope to take the things
I can steal
To make them feel my own;
To heal,
The strange occidental
In the theatre of this bedroom,
Where she no longer says your
Christian name:
Where the rains are always as perfect
As tinsel.