Just What They Do Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh, whatever wound, you are here,
And I am singing,
Because I do not know what else to do:
And I look up through all of
The pages while I am sing,
And even while I walk my dog you
Seem so beautiful, but it is only because I don’t even
Know what else there is to do:
And you come up into the morning like a mystified orchard
While the sugar cane is burning:
And all of it is yellowed, and a banshee, and the new litters
Are being propositioned even by the diminutive coral snakes:
And that is just what they do:
In the rainstorms, and underneath the rainstorms:
Openmouthed and mewing, underneath the airplanes,
And the paper airplanes,
Because that is just what they do.