Swearing That The Pies Can Bake Another Day Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Caveats in a panorama- A silly thrill,
A full room velvet blushing view for all of these
Tourists standing up,
All ready to applaud, the rocketships being pulled
Around and around again
By little boys on taught strings, like red nosed birds
Seeming to try and make love to the moon:
These easy words are like supermarket bouquets
Purchased without reason except for the high school
Crush who in high fever will pass for a day,
As a life passes for a day-
A young boy leaping over all of these flames,
The thorn-lipped coffins; and if you know me, I was
Born in Michigan and that was where I ran away:
My first word was goat bare feet happily naked in
The wet clay where the Dutch were farming celery
As white as ghosts as white as kitchen sheets,
Belly-sick on dreams covered in a sheen of moths,
Like the paper throats of girls who have flown or swam
Away
To find their sailors, crinkling all the tinfoil in their
Hand to make kissing balls,
Swearing that the pies can bake another day.