Its Promises Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cars drive by- laughing, the light fades as the bow shoots
Its quiver full of hopes up into the sky-
Through the panes of windows, the last of another day’s
Bright visage can yet be seen mottling, friendly:
And there is sure to be cares left in the world, even after the
Fair has migrated,
As she works in her little clay court to pay for her joys,
And her young family dances around her, clapping,
Dousing the fire with wreaths of flowers and
Gasoline
Until everything in the night descends, roaring, tumultuous
Puppets getting off on their own numbers,
Cutting paper dolls from the paper trees of their woods:
And all of the woodsmen gets out their axes,
And old fashioned, go to town, saving the kittens as they
Timber her will,
Collecting her apples- calling to each other like braggarts,
Removing her from the tallow halls of her high school-
Like a candle removed from church,
Apples from the orchard, a light house from the sea:
And having their fill, even as that very same day the sun goes
Down into the world,
Sinking with the last of its promises and couples of
Elephants, going into another places where, even with all of
Its promises, she should never see.