The Real Shows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Inebriate in the thralls and resting everywhere:
Going over this, like blue birds passing to nest somewhere
Into the unisons of well lit living rooms with
Entire families commingling there; or what it is that they seem
To be doing:
But resting all spun out like a spun out fair over which the
Sky masquerades in its masquerading ballrooms:
Full of its seasons of paramours just about for anyone,
Each nimbus its own aphrodisiac cultivated by some giant
And all of them in cahoots up there:
And they make their own games for show, colliding
Over our streets so unaware, as the baseball diamonds rest themselves
At the edges of familiar bliss, and we all play our diminishing games
Down here, far away from the real shows that just don’t care.