The Uninhabitable Fantasies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Disillusions start out in
A bedroom drinking rum—
In a little yellow house made out of one brick
Of the sun—
The illusion of my greatness once
Spoke of itself to the empty mirrors of
An emptier fun house—
After all of the muses found that they could
Roller skate up to the sky,
And secured their delusions without melting away:
They made it so far as almost to evaporate,
And then young upon the pilots that they
Found for themselves
By their lapels—
And they never had to come down again,
If they had, they would have landed in the center of
My Mandela of sad catastrophe,
And they would have seen the zoetrope of
Minnows I'd painted with my empathizing tears—
And you would see, waking up in the
Morning—the metamorphosis if little things
That had learned how to skip up into the greatest
Of the uninhabitable fantasies.