Their Gold Through The Skies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Latin classes have new hopes they pass around:
It is supposed to rain this weekend,
But I hope to see Alma, chalk smeared on the playground:
And all of these words like tulips sprouting cantankerously from
The grave:
Alma’s sister’s coronation, churchyards of glowing hibiscus:
And stewardesses coming into the yard,
Showing off in their heels so high that they can reach up and
Stroke the fireworks bellies of airplanes:
They breath so smoothly, but I can sell them anything,
While the unicorns have amnesia: just like Alma forgets who
She is or where she belongs:
Alma wishes that she could go back to school,
And the traffic comes and the traffic goes, and the airplanes leap,
But the bird cages are empty,
And the little Mexican children are holding the sparklers
As green as the colors of Alma’s flag,
And the virgin is in her grotto and clouds smolder like recluses
Counting their gold through the skies.