The Backs Of Rusting Tricycles Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In beside the Ferris Wheels like
Cathedrals over the tannenbaums shading the girls
Who don’t take off anymore,
But gather in the pews, coughing in a cloister of
Blue eyes bruised- eating grapes and
Prisms,
And the foxes at their heels, hyperventilating- frantically
Scouring for the next natural exit,
While above the fabulous hall, beating the time like
A giant metronome of a bird of pray,
The highways of angels rattle and clang- causing
The tree to cry its silver before the crowded sorority;
And they weep and bite their knuckles,
And skin their knees on the backs of rusting tricycles
As they kneel again to pray.