The Streetlight's Fiasco Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The streetlight's fiasco keeps to itself underneath the
Spume of wildhorses,
And this is just a relief as another day stops its echo
As a weakness—and this is a weakness,
This wasn't supposed to be here again in the fabulous raincloud
Like an oil slick over a holiday:
The white bread children all raise their mouths up to the
Baptisms of sweet bread: and they are tenderly laughing,
Just as the airplanes touch in;
And their white, white mother's pretend to love them—
And their white—white god is as white as the white
White snow—
And it becomes so beautiful whatever it is that they forgot that
They had to remember,
Whatever it was I am sure they will never know.