The last line

Sometimes I read a poem that doesn't make sense. Usually, it's written by a long-dead poet whose use of the English language doesn't mimic mine. If I were able to time-travel back to the dead poet's era and immerse myself in his culture, I'd slowly be able to unravel his poem's intricacies; however, before I'd even attempt that, I'd prefer to try to obtain a copy of his most popular book, present it to some commonfolk (i.e., people who don't make their living by trying to decipher poetry), ask them to read a few of the book's poems, and see if any of them can explain them to me. If they can't, I wouldn't bother to expend any effort on those poems.

What inspired me to write the previous paragraph was the last line of a poem I just read titled Jet by Tony Hoagland. The poem begins with this stanza:

Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth

My read went fairly smoothly until I reached the last line, which made as much sense as does eating ice cream topped with Miracle Whip. Here's its last line: "We would give anything for what we have." What the heck is Hoagland trying to say in that line?

You can read the entire poem here.