Fool's Gold Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Told itself to the jungle—told itself to the lies
Of the busy airplanes,
While the neighborhoods lied enfolded—
And the sun became a yellow balloon in the hands of
A dwarf amidst the palmettos—
And all the day long you were dancing or painting
On your body the pretty brown alphabets of
Your skin—and doing your own numbers—
As an exercise upon how to maintain yourself—
While the clubs went out around you,
Swinging their bats at witches—
Or planting bottle rockets into the fertile grounds at
The feet of the mountains,
While another antediluvian god swore to his dumb
Luck underneath the sea—
As we remembered swimming this way—back
And forth in the current of unicorns—
The commercial airplanes in a mobile accumulated
From the fool's gold in our hands.