The First Seasons Of Watermelons Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Street lights who show off their skirts all across
The cannons of church yards
Where the conquistadors have had their sleep for centuries,
Bullied by their own cousins into that coquina blood,
So now that all but Mickey Mouse is lost:
The grand destination for all tourisms, heading up the road
And stopping periodically
To make a wish, while I have been back and forth so many
Times,
And through her wind tunnels, as before her windmills:
The lavished thoughts of brown queens who no longer
Have to prove their magics,
Whose little daughters have hair of straw gold, and baubles,
And all of their faults:
They sleep beside the endearing coffins of their most cherished
Grandfathers,
And there underneath the earth and the overturned wagons,
With the plastic cowboys defeated by the
Stained glass Indians in the marble carport during a rainstorm,
Wait to meet their heroes who will be cast there
Under the crown of thorns,
Who they will lead back out again through the catacombs’
Honeycombs;
And coming across their father’s sword, defeat the same said things:
Eventually becoming their fathers, and taking the foundling girls
As their brides,
Sleeping beside them in the trailer parks to the good luck charms
Of unicorns,
Holding their breath as their bellies swell like the first seasons
Of watermelons,
Until the entire story comes around again.