Like The Bough Of A Christmas Tree Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This is an answer to a prayer huffed from a freshly painted
Magazine:
This is the part in which you don’t care,
This is the amateur thespian who euthenizes his audience
With a craft of wet glue:
This is the water moccasin waiting in the sunken bicycles with
A cottony kiss for you:
This is your sister smelling like jasmine through the night of
Thugs:
This is how your body bugs at the crematorium:
This is a little ticket with a price for you on your toe like the bough
Of a Christmas tree;
This is me stringing lights for you and caroling;
And your body moves- ever organ a street performer pushing the
Breath of life for you- and the stories that parlay through
Your trances;
This is what I have to give for you- and this is how it dances.