Promises To The Angels Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Beautiful midgets in the cylindrical grasses
Underneath the fuselages floating on
Coppertone wings:
I suppose you will go to Spain or
Mexico tomorrow:
I suppose you will go somewhere- and she
Lingers in the fruit market with plastic barrettes in
Her hair,
And she seems line an angel next to the baskets
Of tomatoes
And the sunlight filtering through the canopy
On the very spot where a speak easy once
Existed underneath the footsteps
Of stewardesses who are always ascending the
Ineffable stairway that expresses our
Promises to the angels somewhere.