The Pitchers Sweating On Their Diamonds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I watch pretty ribbons with no discernible
Reason draping your shoulders—
My dog sleeps at my feet, the sky sounding
Like a marching band of feeble carpenters—
And I wonder if they will ever get anything
Done, but I don't wonder too long
As the largest of airplanes are taking off.
Can't you see them from the Disney Worlds and
The make-believe forts—let us imagine together
Where they might be going,
Stopped half way to take snapshots of metamorphing
Titans—they go all the way around the world
As if to become its garland—and when the stewardesses
Step off, as if off a circus ride, throwing their hair
Back and looking at the pitchers sweating on their
Diamonds—They will explain with their eyes
So many things we haven't seen.