The Racetracks Of Their Canals Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In January my wife will be here—and I may or may not
Still be a school teacher—but the fair will come,
And I will have a companion to go with me to the fair—
The light will circulate around the earth,
Because the light is a youngish boy on his paper root—
And candy will melt and decorate the apples—
And upon the midway that are soon to migrate—I will
Win my wife and soon to be first born child
A gold fish— a golden metaphor for all of our love—
And I will love her—even though I go about my ways silently
Around these neighborhoods, too flawed to be anything
More substantial—we will bloom our hearts together—
And look out into the gardens of the morning,
And to the wonderful hippocampus that compete together
Nearby the televangelists in their churches beside the
Busied highways and the racetracks of their canals.