What Is Made Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am a quiet man: These are what I do,
What I say:
The clouds lay across the land.
You drive inside the cars: and I wonder what is
Inside you, like what is inside cars:
The dogs are on the patio, any dogs with blue eyes.
The flies are laying low with the blue eyed butterflies.
The carport is a grotto, is a land for saturnine
Tigers;
Your hair is flaxen, yes it glows: one of the lower deities
Always on her toes:
The goldfish blows in the living room. The curtains
Flutter.
Alone in the houses of your sisters. Where, oh where is
Your mother:
Everything broken down in a school yard, in a ghost yard
Of chalk games, of outlines of how I laid out for you.
Now who am I to blame? I am just a quiet man
Biding my time while the wolves are in the glades:
They always seem to be grinning amidst the stock of easy
Days,
Leaping inside the beds of your dusky trucks,
Making you say their name: I am just a quiet man, while
They always seem to have what is made.