The Castle That They Make Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Birdbath of empty lips
In an empty hall- a great absence on holidays
From man’s greatest invention:
Showing your breasts
While you take the hall pass to wherever
You want,
As from the very extend and of extremity,
There is a thicket of sunlight
Where foxes eat the busy rinds amidst
The stammering of freckling deer:
And the school band plays on and on,
And the stewardesses pepper the clouds,
Perhaps going home to the castle that they make
Believe are there.