What They Really Are Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They get fat off of their echoes like
Tourists enjoying all of my scars- they just
Happen to shed their skin
As they slide in and out of trailer parks, and
Ferris Wheels,
And flea markets: with her little children beckoning
Beside her like miniature lighthouses,
How is it that she can ever again think of me:
But I gave her son Michael fireworks
For his last holiday,
And the planes continuing galloping
Across the mowed field where she parks her car:
As she falls asleep beside him again for one
More night, neither one of them interested in
Discovering what they really are.