Pie For Breakfast Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Beauty is the pinholes through a forest
The trucks of families drive around, lost children
In them never figuring on the conflagrations
Of the heavens: they are going to the amusement
Parks beside the sea,
Beside the fort of roses where the nameless working
Girls get buried,
And the hillsides of pinwheels turn their heads
Trying to kiss the butterflies who echo down
From airplanes: they seem to dance a zoetrope
Of yellow horses,
And the sun milks them, and gives them buttercups
As lovers to kiss and attend,
As the tourists return back to their homes-
And you languish in the brown apertures
That open up revealing your children
And a line of would be lovers holding in their
Hands what they hope to be enough tokens
To kiss you and to feed you pie for breakfast.