Their Favorite Show Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The reindeer who look like sound systems
Entering a closed down store:
Smells of grass, and the promises of a false sea:
Or anyways,
Words that play their own accord, superfluous
Luxury items:
Men reaching out to hold the hands of the women
Who never come in-
A dense menagerie- a swing set up against the
Bicycles sleep
Half naked tourists in softly lighted rooms,
Terrapin
And seashells: old favorite dollars somewhere in the
Forts of coquina-
The smells sucreased off the road- the nocturnal
Orchards that bloom like movie theatres,
And the long forgotten arrows in the limestone crooks:
They will go anywhere,
And remain forever abandoned even as the children return
Home and turn on their favorite shows.