The Numbers Of Aspens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the numbers of aspens,
Airplanes singing, I have my wife—I have my wife,
And now my child—
Rainbows stutter towards the kaleidoscopes of
Brick-a-brack of the homeless unicorns:
It was supposed to be a baseball game,
In all weathers, but especially on valentines—
And then the windows stuttered,
And even the luckiest of the gold fish caught a cold—
And it turned out to be all some kind of make-believe—
And the weathers surrendered to their favorite
Stewardesses—
And other words that cannot be repeat because
It just so happens they didn’t survive.