In Days After Christmases Are Dead Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In days after Christmases are dead,
And in houses where no marriages happened—
Ghosts, cantankerous and green,
Filling out the apertures beneath the satellites
Of the chandeliers whom
Brandish their lights like fairies—
Exhumed in the void
As it seems to be the reasons,
As the littlest of the boys are still in love
With their very first rubber balls—
And something else yet again must have to come
To its conclusions—
Beautiful girls get all of the luck,
As butterflies who look just like them are still
Migrating into Mexicos, to die habitually into the
Hotspots of those lukewarm grottos underneath
The volcanos of their playgrounds
Of poisonous amusement parks.