The Ironic Gods Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wastrels on the trunks of some trees
The stewardesses have disappeared behind,
Kissing after their pilots who
Are sailing the paper airplanes
And sending off fireworks into the skies:
The sugar cane is burning,
And the well maintained lions are in their
Cages-
The batters are up to the plate, and it is
Kissing time over all of the old high school
Where the students mingle with simulacrum
And the vestibules of a copper cemetery-
As I sit out in the grass, the windmills
Gossiping- the lady fingers firing off salutes,
And the traffic streaming like telltale
Messages of the ironic gods.