In The Garden Of A Witch Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the garden of a witch and
The moon is a boat,
Fat as a tick:
I went over the wall to pick
Delicious fruit but
Was bewitched—
The hue of the night doesn’t change,
But clusters of airplanes
Begin to appear.
Time seems to be going by
As my children grow up without me—
I remain frozen in exhibit
Trying to remember my
College years
And my first loves that were
All false.
I suppose that I belong here.
And I imagine that my wife
Has finally learned how to
Drive, but she never once
Thinks to come find me.