The Paraphernalia Of Hotdogs And Souvenirs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Soft as a sip of beer:
Over and over for the every day men—
Children on the swing-sets looking down
Into her,
Bodices untwined in her mirrors—
A pretty game that we have to pay for
From life to life:
Like pennies into wishing wells
Wanting things,
Like prayers before mealtime—
Before drowning back into
Plutos’ of minimum wage jobs:
The glossy atmosphere of something beautiful
And made for us to belong in
But is not real—
Dolls made of plastic, housewives
That little girls turn into—
Young boys looking up into
The satanic and poisonous wishes of the stars—
Cages of gravity that create this obnoxious behavior—
The escapes that we have to pay for—
The tinnier and tinnier cages—
The rust of graveyards,
Mazes of the paraphernalia of hotdogs
And souvenirs. The knees of once grand
Cenotaphs left praying for ghosts to the sea—
The pieces that make up the houses
We live in, moved by the invisible hands
Insuring us that we belong—
Gladly, we are turned up to face the ether—
As vulnerable as porcelain mice with
Ruby hearts—
Seeing the proof of the atmosphere almost
Blinds us:
Airplanes are our angels, the turning metal
A flaxatone to our song.