That Wonderful Old English Summer Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Parks of rum and the stars and
Nothing to do all weekend
But eat hotdogs and look at houses and
Think of girls,
Hair curling around their ears like waves around
Their wharfs,
All strung out in their lovely homeless beds,
In their homeless rooms so unlike the unnecessary
Fairytales in the ballparks of your forgetful children,
And not a one of them really aflame with witchcraft:
Not a one of them homeless, or nameless,
Or jumping trains;
And so my words are perfect for them, bred and
Grown around the segues of the earthy suburbia;
And the night really isn’t asleep,
And so nothing will really be waking up in the morning:
And my words really aren’t anything special-
They aren’t even beautiful: they may be ducks in a pond,
Mindless of the airplanes perpetually leaping overhead,
Who themselves are unaware of the greater tundra
And the Aurora Borealis that I can’t even spell,
Which squats there like a maiden metamorphosed from
A may pole on a way to Chaucer’s hometown in the middle
Of that wonderful Old English summer or somewhere
Even more beautiful.