What Makes The Stars Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Where will your children sleep—the car going down the
Road,
The music making its hum—the day entirely lost—
Strange visions in your head as your take
Your young family into
The south—
Their hearts beating around you—fearful of witches
And the illusions in the sky—
As the knights you never see drip with sweat which
Feeds the amphibians and the only airplanes burn
In the sky—their fires are what makes the stars,
But they are nothing to make wishes upon.