Like Fireworks Upon Their Knees Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Burn my soul in a hole—in a hole as deep as a bucket—
As a bucket waking up on Sundays—
And teach me—teach me to rhyme and sing like a king—
Like a king come Tuesday—
Come Tuesday, with all of his busied alphabet
Spilled upon the shore:
And it just doesn't have to happen until—until she is
Beautiful—
With the pallid fish in their buckets—like knights hanging in
The trees—
Until all of the story is beautiful—beautiful—
The most beautiful parts running alongside of the highway
And kissing—kissing her up her knees—
Knees-


(In an uneven stretch
In Miami—
In the shoulder blades of the evangelical tr—
The coral Castle in Mondays—
Like fireworks upon their knees.)