Beautiful midgets in the cylindrical grasses <br />Underneath the fuselages floating on <br />Coppertone wings: <br />I suppose you will go to Spain or <br />Mexico tomorrow: <br />I suppose you will go somewhere- and she <br />Lingers in the fruit market with plastic barrettes in <br />Her hair, <br />And she seems line an angel next to the baskets <br />Of tomatoes <br />And the sunlight filtering through the canopy <br />On the very spot where a speak easy once <br />Existed underneath the footsteps <br />Of stewardesses who are always ascending the <br />Ineffable stairway that expresses our <br />Promises to the angels somewhere.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/promises-to-the-angels/
