The Misconstrued Cinder Blocks Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Waiting so quietly to disbelieve,
Wanting to see the maker, so climbing the
Most precarious of trees
Underneath that golden track in the sky:
My mother who took me to the library but never wondered
Why it was that I harkened so attentively
To the dismissive stories from the wet books she
So heartily read to me; it wasn’t to they that my senses were
Crying for,
But only to be next to her sodden breast, to lay my senses against
Her heart at rest, as if her body was millennially given over to me,
As the airplanes swept across our ceremonial ballroom
I languished in with her,
Her prettiness fading across my flesh as she waited forever
For my forlorn father to return across the misconstrued cinder blocks
And again to her.