Like Christmas Trees Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This is often the summer, or the way the housewife
Feltâ€"leaving herself beside the
Long necklaces of the poolsâ€"while the diamonds
Sparkled off of her and her armpits,
And the alligators waited downwind from her:
Yes, they were lesser godsâ€"
As her youngest son skipped school and lit off fireworks
Atop of the roof just a few doors down from herâ€"
As they carried up furniture to all of the heavensâ€"
And the canals sang torpidly to their own amusements,
And to the space rockets farting off retarded into
The skyâ€"
Here are the spume of her cathedralsâ€"her areolas
Lapsing sensuously into the caesurasâ€"
As her canals become overcome with the raptures
Of the churches she can no longer feel right to
Attendâ€"they illuminate her and make her a cathedral,
As, however, her swiftest hero is surely coming
To meet herâ€"fighting off all of the monstersâ€"skeletons
And werewolves regenerating on the other side
Of the bends of the catacombsâ€"until she crosses the
Canal to meet me, and we kiss full mouthedâ€"
The tortoises languishing there, like Christmas trees
Underneath the tents of things we still have to sellâ€"
But for a while we are safeâ€"in the sidelines of the
Amusementsâ€"as the airplanes swell
Into the skies until
There is no more room to moveâ€"and we have to meet
Her eyes even though the lamplight is turned to
Meet the gardens of another man.