The Make-Believe Playgrounds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Developments in circles of amusements—
The same yards we've known together,
Separately—
The sun lactating from its greatest jubilation
Over us
Where the lions yawn like breakfast—
And no one thinks to even mention to look
At the grave:
You are a virgin wearing a summer dress
For the first time—
Airplanes who are attracted to you
Like a wishing well that haloes you with its
Elements—
And you stand in the middle of where
You are
Next to the waves where the remains of
The conquistadors are your cenotaphs—
Waiting for the closing down of all movie
Theatres—
In your body of prisms stolen from the
Make-believe playgrounds.