Who Are Almost Real Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have friends who are gods in shallow graveyards,
Taking dust baths like wormy hummingbirds:
I assure you, I have friends who take pledge drives,
Who spume dirt and sod in little gurgling fountains in un-
Exumed parks, under feverish swings:
I have friends who are gods who cannot sing;
And the traffic is up and early, and doing everything:
See that it is not- How can you believe that the morning is
Mourning, and when you wake up if you have a voice to sing:
Your eyes are auburn, your hair is the flume of a trumpeting
Mammal,
And this is another day and we will both sell some things;
And other girls will sell some things,
And mammals like us will perform in their concentric rings:
And there is the sun, and there is the moon, or earlier gods,
Now just our friends, going around in the celestial carnival:
I have friends underground, didn’t I tell you-
I have friends who are almost sleeping, who are almost real.