The Most Beautiful Of Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Baseballs of pledges of allegiances:
I am getting older over these parks—grey geese who
Land in the knots of arboreal witches
As the boys sleep forever upon their red diamonds:
The souls are lost all around here—
Their bodies having grown up and left all of high school:
Only the teachers remain, bloated,
Amphibian—they cannot even reach the lowest orbs
Of the orchard—the lowest cones of the poniard:
And they stutter and struggle and go into and out
Of museums with creaky doors in which
Mermaids have been fused together from spider monkeys
And blue gills: and for those of us who cannot read,
They are the most beautiful of things, but for the rest of
Us—we know exactly who they are.