Toys For Your Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In this body, hunched—lycanthropic—
The memory of the sea trying to reach the
Overpass where its homeless lovers
Wait—
The cars arrows of predestination—controlled,
Wheeling beneath the highways of
Airplanes,
Peppered with the plantations and nurseries
Where the bees pollinate
For things of flowers—and where I’ve
Thought of you,
Coming out like a mollusk from a tear:
There, I see you again:
Your wings are wet, but will soon dry—
It is your birthday
And there are toys for your children underneath
Your arms.