Their Red Yards Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Whole days dying- kaleidoscope of glass houses from
So many days ago,
As the parks swing and the Ferris wheels go,
But it never gets any busier than this-
And the children are never
Found out:
Where they’ve been going, and how it comes down
To them:
They’ve spilled across the sands in their
Make-believes,
But in the busy ways of things- they’ll soon be
The housewives of middle-class kings:
While I’ve loved you in these spilling yards of
Roe and
Fake diamonds: even as you go home to your
Children in their red yards of baseball games-
I’ve said how you make me
Feel, even as the song birds disappear from the sky
And I go off to find another love,
Leaving you to wonder why.