House Cats Anyways Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Inside the broken jubilations, a blue gill that sings another song
To his goldfish:
Anywhere, anywhere that she might be, nudging the golden sky:
I have a child now,
And I am not alone, so I have a wife,
But I dream of being far away from here:
Beneath the mountains that fit the favorite coloring of
The tomb,
And the places that molt like the peacocks of
Rainbows into the skies—
Even while she is away, she becomes so beautiful that you
Have to believe, that the night starts out the way of
The second color in reverse,
And then the fever becomes a river between the trees:
We will become alive again while we are not here,
Just surviving for a little while inside the book stores
That already have no reason to exist:
But in the morning, the plagues and firestorms down
The rows of middle class housewives,
And a special destinction, a hunch in my gut,
Like a catfish cleaning the rug of the living room until
Christmas:
And, once the gods arrive, you suddenly have to believe:
In department stores, and the white tits of mountains,
And in any other way that it finally, ultimately
Has to turn out:
If there are dungeons, at least we can fill them with roses,
And if not roses, wild flowers—
As the ponies that do not live here trample the
Serenade—
And when we wake up in the morning, there will still
Be house cats sleeep underneath of the clouds,
And if there are not clouds, anymore—
Atleast there will be house cats anyways.