Like Bicycles Sleeping Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Acrobatics in the crypts,
Cribs of tomorrow—
I sing to you as song birds over their
Cannibalisms,
Joyful that no academics or housewives
Will have to awaken tomorrow
To hear these things:
Like the waves—there will only be
The backwards rush of traffics,
Of school children who are having trouble
Breathing off again—
And pet cemeteries underneath the newly
Mowed and verdant sky:
And people making money,
Or coming across from Mexico to make money:
Like children going to
Sabbath school, like bicycles sleeping in
The shallow estuaries of the canal—
Not knowing where they have gone—
But singing softly to no one in particular—
As the airplanes and the angels fly so high that
They cannot possibly hear a thing.