Our dreams come from <br />The glass tower <br />Sparkling for ships. <br />There is an old man <br />Who lives there <br />Who has crystal spindles <br />For hips. <br />As we nod, it is his job <br />To refract the light of <br />The teaming in the sea: <br />The hungry cuttings and leaping <br />Of waves and slapping wind <br />And silver shingled fish, <br />To bend the movement <br />Through our open windows <br />All sailing in a front <br />Blown off <br />The Residential Coast. <br /> <br />There he spots us like passengers <br />In a jigsaw airplane unarranged <br />Through the clouds, <br />Like floating candles creating the <br />Monsoons of smoke. <br />The bulbous deluge of roofs <br />In rearranging constellation housing <br />Dark blue <br />Mumbling fools…. <br /> <br />Then the light shimmies <br />Through the tower, <br />Tinkling like glasses pressed to lips <br />At meal time, <br />And crosses through his hips. <br />Leaping a full color spectrum, <br />It knocks down our <br />Front doors <br />And blows the cat <br />From its perch in the kitchen. <br />Running into our bedroom, <br />It jumps into bed with us, <br />Right into us <br />And tells us in secrets rushing <br />The tales of our doppelganging <br />Shadows <br />Who shoplift all day <br />Like uneducated, <br />Forgetful truants <br />In lazy strip malls <br />Far beneath the sea.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-man-s-dream-tower/
