Lips Of A Misanthropic Storm Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Making love to line her pockets—
The lasting wish she uses to feed her children, as the
Mexicans encourage themselves
In the southern florida landscaping—
The conquistadors gone
To pay our taxes—the granite crosses they left
Eaten up the apiary of waves,
And the songs they kept of silver palaces shoveled
Over by the lycanthropic moonlight—
Then there is a place for us, stacked up together
Like vipers in the common place moonlight—
They have been singing a busy accord—and making love,
The fairs come and leave us—with their
Exhibits of lycanthropes and mantacores—
I suppose the housewives will never climb the
Vines to find us, even though we are just across
Their roof tops—shooting off roman candles
Into the green lips of a misanthropic storm.