Under All Of The Muse's Tears Poem by Robert Rorabeck

More graffiti for stewardesses while
My wife sleeps curled up in a shell, a baby inside
Of her like a fully engaged pearl—
Her land of faraway overpopulated by midgets—
Words get twisted
Around the maypole where firemen dressed
As rabbits dance—
And it rains outside making the grasses bury eggs—
Dogs get old and die, but then they are
Reincarnated—
And lines as swift as trains appear out of nowhere,
Going home sometimes takes them all week—
Winos lifting jugs in the fog where the big
Ships sleep, wondering where they buried
Their lucky numbers—beautiful teams of words,
As if raising from the water fountains that advertise
Eternal youth in the middle of a school day—
The popularity that is never used eventually goes
Unnoticed—
The werewolves sing to the unicorns in their sleep,
And other things come to us from the metropolis
Of the houses that inevitably drown
Under all of the muse's tears.