In Their Dinner Parties Of Geodes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Franchises beneath the palmettos and airplanes,
Trying to say her name into dusk,
Losing myself like cicadas- watching the little boys
Turn gray in the wash of cenotaphs and
Orange groves, while that very angel they love
Is just above them, fawning on a carnival
Of wires,
Like a kite they could not buy- and all of their reflections
In the windows of other’s cars, mimicking them
Covered with dust from some girl’s, or their sister’s,
University- and it feels quite fine to lie, or to
Do their parents harm in the middle of the day:
To sit up there as high as any house in their neighborhood,
Woebegone, or sitting in armchairs anyways, across
The canals segregating their counterparts like intersections
Do winos, and lighting fireworks, fireworks to the
Recalcitrant gods who refuse to work anymore,
And lay ensconced anyways in their dinner parties of geodes.