The Littlest Makebelieves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In a whispering melancholia the night tells
Its horses
There are no more sanctimonious orchards
To steal—
To climb and smell the little white flowers—
To see the bottle rockets
Shooting off over the chicken coops of
Disney World—
And when the stewardesses return home,
Effervescing headily into beds,
With their blue socks stuck straight up
Into the air—
Their dreams have no more rooms for
Boyfriends—
For in their limbos are avenues of nightmares
Underneath the sea—
Little boys steal into with their games of
The littlest makebelieves.