Kneeling At The Waterfountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Can you not tell me which way the rain decided
To go, after it had fallen:
Which side of the slope it decided to take, and which of
My muses did it decide to follow—
Even while all of the lamplight has become shaded,
And they wont be selling Christmas trees or
Easter Eggs until tomorrow:
But I love you in the morning of this casket:
I kiss your legs and your eight year old breasts:
And we both hold our breasts waiting for the sun to swim up
Tomorrow—both of us knowing that it never will:
There is it's cemetery: there is it's hill:
And it will linger—and it will vanish: poems will have no
Tongue for it—and it will disappear with the animals who have
No care for the school yards—and the angels will fall
Away from the paths of its memory—
And then we will both hold hands together, waiting for
The sports cars to emit their own pin wheeling holidays:
Because surely they will, because up from them springs all of
Our heavens—and here is the garden of what it means to us:
Kneeling at the water fountains where we care to
Say our Amens.