The Beautifully Enigmatic Skies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This is the way the ashes of the fireworks float
Down above the sunlit and shadowed heads of her two
Men:
One evil and one good, but both good enough for her bed,
As the fruit market is closing up everyday
Underneath the sauerkraut and grass roots of the most
American of Angels,
Sitting up their in their tenements or banging utensils
So hungrily in the cafeterias
Of their yellowing lawns through which the great silver
Airplanes faun:
And the sun becomes the principal, while my lips wait
So thirstily at the gate of the water fountain
Before your browning, sorrowful eyes,
Your children in the cribs, the angels in the skies;
And I am unable to drink, even with the nectar of sodas
Pressed to my lips,
As long as while that evil man blows the wind that directs
Your soulful ships,
The waves cavalcading their saddles and dives,
And the most American of angels making their dour plans
Even through the beautifully enigmatic skies.