Spokes Of Tangled Bicycles Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And the rivers get up while
The ball bounces,
And god swings down his hand, scooping up
The jacks in the forest
As the pinwheels spin- and the cowboys and
Indians take turns lying down on the
Box springs between the
Acetylene canyons- and if you’ve been
A good boy, they give you this:
And if you’ve been a bad boy, they give you
That,
But you go home to your trailer parks
Anyways,
And sell Christmas trees for your father,
Yawning up through the branches like the spokes
Of tangled bicycles-
Scribbling the scrimshaw that tattooed your
Grandfather-
And the skeletons grin- and the kites
Take flight,
As you close your eyes and enfold around her,
Going to bed for that very night.