Your Pretty Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The power of the stars has Jesus’ name on them,
And now, my find young sisters, Sharon is melting the snow,
And my Alma cant describe for herself what to
Do:
Oh, If I was more beautiful and more Mexican:
If I had come all the way from Guerrerro on the same bus
That she knew,
Pregnant, and breathed from her mother and father:
Oh what would I know:
I only know graveyards and the silvery bellies of fish,
The boats of warriors overturned,
And snowflakes in the amusements of the times that were lost
And can never be reclaimed:
The cats are all pregnant and as fast as speed boats,
And in the morning my forehead will brush through all the
Fiery motes
And you will just have to forgive of all of this,
While I drink my wine and kill my dragons and defeat my own
Mobile flames:
I will go down to sleep tomorrow believing that I am still the same
One who deserves the blame,
While you spread your wings and save your cities
And sing your pretty things.