The Wishing Wells Of The Dimmly Lit Amusement Park Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I cannot love in the shadow of mountains,
Or the neon glow of fast food chains:
They are the same thing,
The moonlight falls upon the valleys, advertising:
Like the winos who go on begging:

My father sells fireworks for a living;
Like him, I sell things:
When the day goes down, the night clouds,
And the air-condition goes on humming:

Beautiful birds fly up to touch the wired joints
Hung in the sky:
The chicken wire hung there by the stars for
Christmas:
The beautiful stewardesses who metamorphosis
Back into women as they melt back down

Into the penny canyons
And the wishing wells of the dimly lit amusement park:

Rubbing our eyes, thinking the poem is over,
Turning over in beds and then having to wake up for our
Livings:

The best children caddie for the astronauts,
But don't have to ask them for favors:

Here in the stucco and chicken wire valleys where
Dolls play where we are lost,
They awaken, animated for the morning
And then, costumed,
Disappear into their familiar and
Radioactive haunts.