In The Empty Playgrounds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Late again at night I go down into the bottle
To reminisce with the genie who never gave me anything
That I wanted,
And the words crumble away like a papier-mâché Ferris wheel
In a sad god’s shower,
And the grapes tremulate celestially above the forever gurgling lips
Of purple foxes,
And you can feel everything that never got what it deserved,
And you can hear the airplanes all too eagerly leaving town,
Even as new saints are discovered in the empty playgrounds
Where I guess we once believed.