Golden Boy Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It looks just like this,
My house in a playground of stars, so that when I go
Out everything is blinding as a golden city in heaven, and god
Is shining:
God is real and he is diademed atop an opulent hill:
And he smiles a rich smile and offers to pay for everyone’s rounds,
And the city loves him and beneath him makes joyful sounds:
And I have a littler house down near the bottom of this hill;
It is as yellow as the canaries who rest upon the windowsill;
And my house is filled with the golden rods of our father’s joy,
And if I ever have a child I sure hope it is a golden boy.