The Mirages Of A Once Poisonous Artistry Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Glass elbows concubined to the shadows,
Puppets pulling their own weight towards
The falsetto of minnows—
Moonlight hatcheted by branches stared at
By a virginal serf who has never tasted
A stolen apple—
Wife and children awakened to a drinking
Husband
Who tries to type a few more lines of a poem
He cannot finish in a decade—
The sun steals away the sadness and possibility
Of rain—all of it is a quickening heaven,
Drying up the mirages of
A once poisonous artistry.