In January my wife will be here—and I may or may not <br />Still be a school teacher—but the fair will come, <br />And I will have a companion to go with me to the fair— <br />The light will circulate around the earth, <br />Because the light is a youngish boy on his paper root— <br />And candy will melt and decorate the apples— <br />And upon the midway that are soon to migrate—I will <br />Win my wife and soon to be first born child <br />A gold fish— a golden metaphor for all of our love— <br />And I will love her—even though I go about my ways silently <br />Around these neighborhoods, too flawed to be anything <br />More substantial—we will bloom our hearts together— <br />And look out into the gardens of the morning, <br />And to the wonderful hippocampus that compete together <br />Nearby the televangelists in their churches beside the <br />Busied highways and the racetracks of their canals.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-racetracks-of-their-canals/
