On The Steps Of Gold Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alma on the steps of gold—
Fishermen with their hooks of empty hands—
This seems to be the way to
The heavens,
Or so I am told—
Alma on the steps of gold—
Greenness in the sky and airplanes—
Waterspouts dancing with their hurricanes—
Apoplexy in the silent race of clouds
Shaking their silvery rains over
The everglades on an off day—
Alma kneeling in the shade—
Plants being sold from the seeds by which
They're made—
Sad men painting themselves runaways
On stolen bicycles—
Lovers being what they are told—
Alma on the steps of gold—
Brave young men taking death by the hand,
Dividing everything by three,
As if that was their plan—
I cannot imagine everything ever being so again,
Alma kneeling in the shade,
Feeding ducks from her soft brown hand—
Her children all cast around her again
Practicing becoming again as if they were
Made,
Alma kneeling in the shade—
While airplanes caracole in the grottos
Of their somnambulant sleep—
Blessing angels, counting sheep—
Stewardesses listening to what they are told,
Alma on the steps of gold.