To Make-Believe Where The Trees Never Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Dancing lights in the summer,
While I am just trying to live like a dog,
But your picture books are golden:
They live so long,
Slung over the shoulders of the canal,
Pretending to grow up and to be beautiful,
And you truly are
A goddess
All strung out and carrying your backpack-
And I will have to see you tomorrow,
And pretend to be you teacher,
But now, all strung out,
Maybe I love you even more than
My muse,
As the zoos slumber- don’t you know that
They do,
And it all becomes a quieted epitaphs:
Yes, and they don’t even have to sing to
Themselves,
But it quiets for awhile so you can almost
Here the angels whispering underneath the traffic
As we take her for awhile
In the echoing river walks of traffic,
While the dragonflies stand jewel-chested
Beautiful in a make-believe where the trees never
Have to change.