Their Present Perfect Superlatives Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am doing a much better job underneath the airplanes
Without my father here to correct me:
What am I doing, being lit up by the careless and yet
Absolutely sure bombs—
Combing over the parapets of their memory-less jungles:
And there is a new word left out in the open
For you—
And giving you the newest of securities that we so
Uncertainly are left to enjoy—and if I've failed you laying
Down my last catastrophe of a heirloom into
The mementos of a movie theatre where the blindest
Of spelunkers proceeds—spreading his wings
And searching out a careworn alphabet—then again
There will be another summer—
And I've been starving—starving—and waiting for this
To happen and fearing linking verbs
Or their present perfect superlatives.