Of Our Disney World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Green hills do not make a sea—neither do
Bicycles make unicorns—except that they are there,
Underneath a Christmas of palm trees,
And this is the vanishing resort of
Emptied bottles—
Of fox's tongues tasting only the bitterness
Of an unreachable promise:
Its venal muses on their own metamorphosis,
Themselves dreaming of the sweet arms
Of baseball players—
Mexicans sleeping underneath them, their sport
Done with the orchards,
Their trumpets put away—their children failing English—
And yet their minds do not languish over the
Dreams that will never come ashore—
Climbing up on their ladders of starving yellow mules,
They will sing as they make the orchards bare—
The sunlight swimming over them like
Vermillion swans,
Basking on their shoulders
As the clouds become a piece of fiction—and the orchards
Where they believe, truer than all of the
Wonderfully superfluous architectures that spread their
Papier-mâché over the chicken wire of the aquamarine castles
Of our Disney World.