In The Ghostly Cauldron Of Her Eternal Soiree Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My dimes of civility should pay
For hours of blowing glass;
Then to look up from tall strangers
And fall in love with the prettiest
Girl behind stained glass:
This is my some kind of religion blowing
Like kisses from the key stone of
The overpass;
This is the dead fall in the ditches,
The donkeys bothered by spikenard and
Cormorants;
And if my mother asked me, I would concede
That I can still fly,
But there would have to be some concessions;
I couldn’t go outside anymore to foreplay in the
Working class malls of Michigan or
Indiana-
And she wouldn’t raise anymore her eyes to my
Broken promises, all the foreign flowers
Which have fallen out of the brotherhood of
My hands
And gone to war:
She would have to fall in love with another,
Of this I am unwontedly sure;
She still stands there playing to the music boxes
Of my mind,
Like a stalwart young hiker pirouetting like
A dream in the tallest basins above tree line:
Eerie, and dancing and pleasing as a flower
Sipping its photosynthetic drinks,
Curling its lashes obnoxiously flirting, calling in
The whip flashing lightning to come and
Bask in the ghostly cauldron of her eternal soirée.