Like Candles Are Held Up To Wishes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It feels rich, these foibles of camouflage,
Making love at the races, grasping for one another’s hands
While the butterflies are torn like empty tickets,
As the fabulous tenements burn up to the skies,
As the dogs run free and naked over the yards where the
Cars don’t even park,
So who’s to say, Alma, if soon we once again won’t be
Making love,
And holding each others eyes up to our lips like candles
Are held up to wishes.