To Make Belive Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The sky cattles- up yip,
If that is what it does: the sky looks stormy while we
Have all gone indoors,
And my parents are coming home, and turning around,
And looking for baseball games:
They are bringing me my dog, and I can barely breathe:
The beautiful crenulations of the seas continue
On for many days, up thrusting, and showing their
Wares:
Looking just as beautiful as any housewives, turning through the
Showers up thrust around the maypole,
Curtaining ponies- and the entire world settles around the
Basest of elements, the basalt around the pony’s
Eyes,
While orchards await the blue gills to storm through the tenements
At their roots;
Even while all of their daydreams are right here and curling up
Around the sub tenements of the adulterous knees;
As the puppies jump yip wanting some salt
From her nubile games,
Hanging out of the windows,
Like a dowry of Siamese orchards, fruits awaiting at the end of
Her games;
And her belly is a coiling misuse, echoing sometimes like a baby
Crying- and the sky echoes just what it does,
The city proving that the cats are only here to make-believe.