If I Were King Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Dying with the bluebirds who haven’t found
Their summer:
I supposed I loved you, but there is only this:
The inconsistent artistry
Across the spine of broken continents
Trying to sing:
Across the dying world, another angel
Fading- falling as ashes to the lips
Of the somnolent fish in its
Playground: falling down that way, over
The train tracks of the playground:
And I hate you:
And I hate you, while I remain theatrical,
But it doesn’t matter as I am dying-
And it seems to take a while for the fire engines
To sing,
Across the playgrounds, making a boisterous
Noise into the amphitheatres that I suppose
Were never there:
While in the morning, there will be breakfast:
And the daylight of their songs only lasts for
Another summer,
And then all of the pretty architectures diminishes-
And we sing for our own money, as the preternatural
Daylight fades, as if I were king.