Floating On A Lucky Gentleman's Balloon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If we start fogging our four windows,
One day soon- nine months or so,
All of our children will be storming the gates of
Heaven;
A womb of filigree and midnight spume,
You know the room, vertical underneath ceiling fans
And plastic stars and blue brooms-
I’ve laid you there and cleaned your flower with
My tongue,
And beat out a jingly tune on your petal soft drums:
Oh, I guess that was just what I was meant to dream
About doing to you,
Passed out in class, or fondly depriving some other
Boy’s father’s liquor cabinet when I was supposed
To be eating lunch:
Staring into your eyes instead of the instructor’s,
Drowning out any other lies;
But now there is only the static of a poorly received moon,
For aren’t you so busy living out your life in another
Man’s bright balloon;
And sometimes I see you go flying through the sky
Like a motion picture in a velvet room,
That I want to smoke you out of the sky and dropp you into
The crèche of aloe so near the passion play
With a slight rain coming down, that I would make you real
Enough, and plush and comfortable enough
To believe in you for always, even after school is such
A long ways over,
And you are floating in that lucky gentleman’s big balloon.