The Brightest Sorrows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When the houses are so near the school
That they can believe nothing else but what
The teachers seem to spell—
With their lecterns rising like torches in
The morning's graves—
The children grow up so near the crematoriums-
And I watch them,
Paper dolls kissing matches,
Pollinated by helicopters and sometimes
Hurricanes—
Blonde—blonde children groomed to be
Housewives and business men—
Amnesiacs the busses swallow—
They will arrive today
And again tomorrow—
Neon cenotaphs of society's brightest sorrows.