The Other Diminutive Christmases Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bicycle lights sashayed by the breeze,
And I get the feeling that I am never going to
Make it California:
The lighthouses are floating in the sea:
My boys don’t survive,
The windows open the meat of the world,
And their throats start singing back to me
The metamorphosis
Of housewives, the little plagiarisms inside
The tender classes:
And all of the streams I’ve had to skip myself,
That Alma doesn’t know,
But I found her alone in the store again today,
And I took her to the bicycles,
And we decided in the little time that we would
Have upon which the best
Turn of the century machines would bring us the
Best joys:
And she wouldn’t even let me touch her or
Sleep on the roof of her house:
And the clouds finally melted, and mice and the ant lions
With their indescribable games finally went to
Sleep,
Leaving their prey to reason about the other diminutive
Christmases, while she at last found his other brown
Hand and closed her eyes to my dreams.