The Rain Showers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Trees in the lost syrups of little girls,
Dried up but making the asphalt stick, so when the
Scattered firecrackers explode
In their fraternity of dyspeptic claps, their paper
Like red fingers splay on the road-
The road kill of the infants of Chinese butterflies,
Over which the traffic of housewives drives utterly
Insouciantly, receding back home to the
Premeditated weathers of their living rooms and offspring,
Their thickets controlled,
Their serpents starving- and their rabbits multiplying in
The pretty teal gutters warming up to the bric-a-brac of lost
Tennis balls, last weeks savings, and better lovers
Under the blue crepuscule covers in a corrugated den
Hibernating but crying only when the rain showers.