The Grottos Of The Washing Machines Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Give to me vengeance in tight graveyards and exit
Signs- or give to me believing in down towns with unlucky
Numbers, or way to pull our of her before she even
Breathed out the cares of her first birthday that she was already real:
Or give to me believing that I am already made over
In the forest fires of my parents
And this already the kindergartens of wherever it was,
And we all had to sing together to dragons our wishes:
And here we are blowing out our candles already over the lakes,
The knees of our virgins tremulating and claustrophobic
But already touch the heavens like Popsicles to the lips
Of kindergarteners underneath the sad easy of nursery rhymes into
The lavender showrooms of whatever mass they held for our
Teenaged ancestors- and then there was this beautiful thing,
Left abused outside the grottos of the washing machines,
Until it rained as it had to rain, and the houses melted,
And even our father’s horses felt our pain.