Without Any Thoughts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

On Sunday there are wildflowers,
And I make love to Alma high up in church on those
Mountains,
Because, mother, don’t you see me now,
And all of the beautiful joy that out of your heart I’ve
Stolen;
And now it might as well be time for the fair to come
Around again,
Because I am laughing, and I am just a day laborer,
While a couple young boys fight out underneath
The yolks of sun of another yard;
And all I have left to explain myself is this:
The aero buses having picnics through the cerulean
Blueness above the Indians,
And the parks becoming unwound, and the fireworks having
To say what they have to say for themselves,
While everything else in untrue, their monsters the killjoy of
Merry go rounds, until finally the morning is picking up,
And the year is returning young; while your family still doesn’t
Know who I am,
Famishing and burning, but sparking such joy, whistling
Against the fresh haircuts who cloud their memory without
Any thoughts of ever coming down.