Her Midnight's Speciality Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Dysfunctional knights,
Not used to being out of doors, taking lunch with
The frogs:
This is just the place, the wishing well backed up against
The sea—
The freight trains running home to get out of the
Rain, the new born children reclining towards their
Mothers’ breasts,
The same old protuberances winding down—
And only just one or two children yet out of place—
Soon the entire show will stop—
Petrified by the kaleidoscopic lights of the midway,
And someone brighter than all of this place
Will show her face,
And the angels will come running home
As the night blooming jasmine closes her buds,
Perfumed into the boudoirs of her midnight’s specialty.