The White-Washed Sea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

White bread and white maids,
Marmalade and sugar tarts: stick me
High atop the citrus tree,
Like a paper airplane, paper nose pointing
The way to the white-washed sea:
Pretty dolls and forget-me-nots,
Ivory beavers slapping dams,
Lover-boys in snowy trams making their
Procession to the white-washed sea:
Tourists there, Mickey-Mouse, and fricassee,
Conquistadors jounced on vanilla poles,
Saints and crosses like Spanish scarecrows on
Concrete atolls, bleed anemically towards
The white-washed sea: Hills of windmills are
Picaresque, lovely cherries on her white washed-
Breasts, bones of birds and pica ninnies;
Aunts sing cantos at their nieces nurseries,
Pale and freckled and on their knees,
Girls who’d been roller-skating as if on foam,
Stop and pray to the white-washed sea;
Pick themselves up, adjusting their silky delicates,
Before rolling home, to sit cross-legged smoking
Candied cigarettes and gossiping underneath the
Sky’s crenulated dome, eyes so lost and hopeless,
All fair and so lonely, yet well-perceived,
Searching for some solutions across the white-washed sea.