The Festivals Of A Lighthouse At Christmas Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wounded as true as this- words filling up the empty
Spaces that the cars punctuate rapidly-
And the hollow eaves under overpasses that the flea markets
Fill up on weekends-
While off over to the east there are waves and waves,
Gallantly dying for a woman who doesn’t live in them
Anymore,
But whom they can still feel and remember, echoing:
And they going habitually answering,
Like bachelors in a ballroom of shadows in a forest where
All the leaves have fallen
And it aches to be a live, though it continues remembering
The lights that once filled up their throats
Like the festivals of a lighthouse at Christmas.