The Playgrounds That Dream Of Your Sleepless Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I remember the sound the traffic made as it
Made its way around the sea—
Outlines of the sea-life architecture—
And the mermaids its mythology:
Architecture of its tears stolen to water the flowers
Of our suburban grottos lit up like
Christmas all along the front stoops of
The churches—
And the places that we have loved kept like
A movie in front of our attention:
I have given all of my soul to these wet monuments,
And soon I will ride my bicycle nearer to the
Bereavements that wet the stones of a lonely preschool:
Maybe you will remember me—
Maybe you will cry out my name—disregarding
The dances of marionettes
Across the playgrounds that dream of
Your sleepless children.