The Lady's Wedded Gem Poem by Robert Rorabeck

With a mouthful of candles I hold out and wait
For the new show:
Crepuscule has built and flood even over the blind man’s
House who is always checking out
The emperor’s new duds:
And when they have weddings, they hold them as softly
As soft boiled eggs
As oranges are sliced and buttered into marmalade:
And if it appears to us at all,
It appears while the eyelids are still jumping the canals
Before chanticleer sings;
And even though they are diamonds,
And they pattern the rural glades: they are slipping away,
Atop a grass stained belly, forked tongue;
And it isn’t to encrust the lady’s wedded gem for which they are
Made.