Upon The Banks Of Michigan Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The day trades its dreams upon a Freudian soufflé
Until its afternoon wherein I drink hard liquor and look at pictures
Of old classmates who made it all of the way to New York,
And are doing well, with their white wives- and cats-

Men with troubles tell me to believe in Jesus, because times are
Hard and parts of the body have to be operated upon:
Angels come into their room and rearrange the furniture:
They are getting worked upon; it is a miracle:

And what are the Glaciers doing? But giving the face
Of Michigan dermabrasion: in those deep ruts, there is beauty,
And soft things grow,
And the great lakes spread fjord-like for ships, cold waters as soft as gowns-
And upon the banks of Michigan, flowers abound, hiding the
Dead soldiers,
In those Hyborian theatres where flower shops are known
To be graveyards:

The is its beauty, tossed alongside the road:
Asleep in Rimbaud's valleys- it is where we kind find an answer
For Jesus:
He is lying down here too, trying to rest
From the paparazzi who, given enough time, will forget
And begin to follow other men who are also trying to become
Rich and famous.