The Shadows Of The Armpits Of The Sun Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Strange as the shadows of the armpits of
The sun—
My father trades upon his hopes and fears,
And real live angels hold their breath long enough
To come down to kiss
And bless the roof of my house—
Even after the days of their own family of
Angels are over—
And everything gets softer and more poetic—
I linger, beleaguered in my old neighborhood
Until we are entirely famished and
Do not know quite where we are
Until we are there—
And Saturn keeps carrying his many rings of
Strange and saturnine lamps,
Made of girls who have turned into the pig millions
That once existed upon the borders of
The jungles of their high schools' proms—
And I hold their cheeks in my beat-up fists—
As the goldfish seem to ponder the invisible heavens
That they have made up in the daydreams of
Their front porches—
And it seems to just go on and on—
And isn't it just a made-up graveyard of forever?