By The Sweat Of Your Brow Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Giving me too much time to consider that
I am not going home:
Snails on my shoulders in their little houses:
Roman candles pointed earthwards toward
The canal-
And I am in a place they thought may not
Have existed-
And they burn effigies of broomsticks until the
Candles become sauce and gravy,
Until, sometimes, the midnight works,
And you can float underneath her as a little boy
Going up and up into a chimney
While yards of aerobuses circle beneath you
And the magic is in your armpits:
And the magic is by the sweat of your brow