The Stewardesses Who Work For Charity Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The horses kept their stalls
Until the men around them went for breakfast:
It was the most beautiful sun above them
That anyone could bet upon—
And it was a silent, silent world that they were all drawn
Into—men inside studio apartments
As empty as reason is on the moon:
Starlight and moonlight above the dinnertimes of
Places where people happened to disappear into, following
Whatever they happened to remember that they
Could not believe in—and the hot air balloons were
Going up by different degrees over the fireworks
Tents scattered over New Mexico's deserts—
And the lonely planes flew,
Like your lost jewelry—like another Sabbath lost at
Sea—as full and as high as the moon is for
Werewolves—rising and hoping to kiss the lips of
The stewardesses who work for charity.