Whatever Existence Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don’t want to play around with you
Again, around the parks of the dead railroads
Or the willows of the murdered
Girls: I have felt your brown skin in my ghostly
Hand,
And put it inside you like clay in a lost school
Yard the children are abandoning
Like hapless kites, as the weather floods
Whatever existence that is there’s to have,
And they go away:
Softly. Butterflies laugh at them, and the housewives
Never look up to see how it is that their
Children all but disappear.