Dying figments unsuited for these hours <br />Sit underneath the dabs of wasps, <br />Or at the corners of her cheek where she lives: <br />In the pornography of rusting cars, <br />Or at the sad confines of the canal: <br />Floating along in her trailer park underneath <br />The washout heavens of those <br />Billboards trying to sell their god to the highway- <br />When she smiles, a long ways off, <br />She can see her children even if they cannot <br />Recognize her- and it is her art form to do this, <br />And to sit beautifully alone, <br />Pleasuring herself as if she believed in ghosts: <br />Like my own childhood where I remember sitting <br />With my mother and reading books <br />Underneath skyscrapers and landmines of sunshine: <br />Or leaning over to see our doppelgangers in the <br />Canal, <br />The tadpoles swimming with the paychecks of <br />Lost men: reticent to transform, <br />They remain in my childhood long after I have gone.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-paychecks-of-lost-men/
