Brighter Than Any Fireworks I Have To Sell Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Dancing on the plebian shores,
I can pretend to have all the answers without knowing all of the words,
Like Shakespeare smearing the bones of pigeons to all of
His dogs,
Like water coloring above the grand canyon and all of the words
She carries to her graves,
The out of print and apocryphal hymns that grandmothers never had
To give in church:
And this is what it means to be out of print and singing to my Spanish
Turtledove:
Singing to you, Alma, from my drunken coves, trying to meet
My quotas for your spent though ageless love;
Because you love me now, Alma, and you’ve said it before driving home,
While I still have so many fireworks to sell,
While your eyes light up across my body brighter than any poems that
I have to spend, and again, brighter than any fireworks I have to sell.