Upon A Vanishing Midway Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Then there was a poem for you
Buried in the sand by the cat
By the wolf—
They said they would turn it into a tree
For you, but no one read it—
It was an un coalescing joy, but your children
Continued to sing around it something like
The abandoned gifts of an inconsequential Christmas—
Whatever catastrophe there was
South of Disney World
North of the North pole—I kept on abandoning
You perpetually until the stewardesses all
Took flight—skipping the souls of their bosoms
Across the absolute ponds of a very midnight—
Until whatever sang for you ran and ran away—
And whatever still hoped to make its love to you
Had to play out its abandoning pockets upon a
Vanishing midway.