The Poem Of My Wounded Thoughts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The poems of my wounded thoughts must
Want something they cannot have—
The illusion of gladness,
The same thing as an amusement park beside
The road:
It must look like this, with its hands out:
Maybe they only want a little money,
Or a little honey from
The little girls—who go back home with
Their fathers as big as wolves,
Into houses that act like caves with the
Warm voices of cartoons bathing over them,
And the sea pushing right up against
The door,
Attracted by their insouciant smells.