The Ever Setting Sun Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They dont keep their kilns anymore I still write poetry,
And those who blow glass are imperfect,
As the day fails into night over the golf courses and beautified
Apartments of America or Disney Word
And when the heart strings get into the gut of her,
She can rise up and sing to the dolphins she will
Never see except for on the television
And then she will go down again-again, letting her first born
Suckle upon her breast
She will never know what it means to celebrate Christmas:
Christmas, as my first wife will never know
She will rise up in another world, from a bed made of
Dinosaurs and vampires yawning: she has never seen or
Even heard of the woods but for now she is my muse,
And her arms stretch in yellow branches
Never knowing what she does to me as I think of the
Children we will make to become
Underneath the overpasses of the ever setting sun.