The Littlest And Youngest Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Beautiful fanfare gone into the luxury of the night:
We take wedding pictures
As the flashing carnivalesque light bulbs of the fair disappear:
They are going to the rodeos of new towns
To fill up the hearts of emptied spaces—to bounce off the crisp
And amber lights of colleges and universities hours north
Of here,
Where the trees grow deciduous where the airplanes are
Yet young and leaping,
And the housewives go out in the middle of the night to see
And find them,
To weep themselves out of their own homely occupations,
But then to go back inside again,
To take off all of their clothes and to bundle themselves
In salt and sweat—to dream of Christmas trees
For the Holidays of their futures—
And their littlest and youngest children trying to carry themselves
Away using the apexes of their swings—
And into a beautiful fever that has nothing else to believe in.