The Supermarkets Of The Very Air Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In totality, the airplanes fly through the sun:
You see, don’t you,
They are going to meet angels in a ballroom
Up there in a high school:
Yes, they are leaping over the birthday candles
Of my muse,
While for so long, I have sung to you,
From the useless epitome of my gardens,
As the roars of lions echo
While they hibernate,
And the tourists spin around as if in a bowling
Alley of green swans-
And I think of you, and write this pitiful stuff:
While the fox is in his very own
Fable,
Leaping for grapes and talking to rattlesnakes:
And I suppose I loved you,
But I am growing old, as the girls sunbathe
In the nude,
And the caesuras are fill with heavy-purple
Jellyfish,
While up above, the pilots soar, doing their
Stuff and mouthing off,
While the stewardesses seem to skate through
The supermarkets of the very air.