The Strange Festivities Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The strange festivities of their souls
Cannot trap the butterflies I don't
Know anything about—
As the sun come up over the shoulder-blades
Of the airplanes while we are still
In school—
And there will be recess tomorrow—
Or almost forever,
Underneath the sweet sweat and the daydreams
Of stewardesses or
The girls who are in their own rooms,
Captivating themselves by the
Strange games which we all play—
And then, as if Christmas comes—
And the kaleidoscopes beckon from
The most beautiful illusions of
All of the churches, well then all of the barmaids
Become mermaids to whom the best of
The professors sing to forever—
Counting clockwise,
Their hearts in a chorus of magnificent shadows,
And the angels flying like
Daydreams over the baseball games of
Their sweetest tomorrows—
Well then it feels alright to evaporate
And to become another part of the illusions
That run forever like racehorses over the seas.