Down The Highway Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All of the tables are turned and all of the dogs
Are asleep—
The Christmas tree is lit; Oh god it is so bright,
And the angels are learning
As the gift wrapping collects beneath the
Vanishing lives—the highways continue to matriculate
The wives—
As some kind of punishment,
As some kind of spear in the side of god—
The television shows continue to laugh and nod—
As the voice of the real lions roars like a waterfall of
Water fountains—until the angels can finally be
Found inside, going to school except for on weekends—
And enjoying the places
Where they are so fortunately found to exist—
They kiss and tell for show and tell
And then they'll pretend to disappear—the god
That they believe in travels by himself down the
Highway, cursing the sun as he drinks a beer.