Dying figments unsuited for these hours
Sit underneath the dabs of wasps,
Or at the corners of her cheek where she lives:
In the pornography of rusting cars,
Or at the sad confines of the canal:
Floating along in her trailer park underneath
The washout heavens of those
Billboards trying to sell their god to the highway-
When she smiles, a long ways off,
She can see her children even if they cannot
Recognize her- and it is her art form to do this,
And to sit beautifully alone,
Pleasuring herself as if she believed in ghosts:
Like my own childhood where I remember sitting
With my mother and reading books
Underneath skyscrapers and landmines of sunshine:
Or leaning over to see our doppelgangers in the
Canal,
The tadpoles swimming with the paychecks of
Lost men: reticent to transform,
They remain in my childhood long after I have gone.
Robert Rorabeck
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-paychecks-of-lost-men/
