Like Goldenrods Towards The Moon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Travelling boys put to rivers—
As cemeteries overflow the northeastern part
Of the city—
Where Sara Teasdale is buried—
And buildings of red bricks tumble like donkeys:
These age old canyons of the Saint Louis
Slums I’ve driven by once upon a time
On my way to sell fireworks for some bum—
Where the moon cavorted over the golden arches
In the fast food temple filled with black people,
Where there is no Fountain of Youth
For a thousand miles—
And where the airplanes never touch down
The stewardesses in their diamonds fearing the lack of
Water, the way their eyes turn like goldenrods towards
The moon.