The Day Is Make Believe Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The waves seem to be learning how to fly,
Or just getting up so that they can try:
Yawning like blue eggs brought to the lips,
Overeasy breakfasts of the sun-
Bicycles sunken in their breasts- the complex jewels
That kids lose while playing-
Knees scabbed by slathering kisses, like tears
That good girls give in a swimming sorority:
Blowing kisses across a sunken street where fireworks
Are swimming on holiday;
And you have to keep your head up to see the forts
Floating up in the sky: they were made to be that way,
Like smoking from the bereaving day-
And little dead angels in those halls pinwheel in the
Attractions in which they find themselves,
And laughing giddily as the soft movement is somehow
Rushed through the shallows- taking your hands up to the side of
The sun, because you are my muse- and
As I am watching you, that is how you learn to pray;
And the day is make-believe, and so am I.