Satisfied And Alone Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pillboxes along the beach as quiet as empty shells:
The terrapins are done,
And their young are running like inky yoke and
Ladling taffy back into the womb
That is never satisfied with its occupations:
All of these dead men and starfish dividing into her,
Saying their prayers,
Occupied now like cenotaphs courting mailboxes,
Like everything I have ever even thought of;
And houses are being sold and being fulfilled by semi thought
Out lovers;
Better yet fireworks are being used up by the boys
Out at play gambling on rooftops, never minding the
Beautiful chalk pictures of sky the rains will wash away
Anyways;
Bags of gone dynamite blow away: and the day becomes fun
And emptied,
As it starts out and finishes all in the hours that make up itself;
And you are somewhere in its garden,
Mystified and truly beautiful in your mystery; and set out with
The other boys in the playground to find you,
Swinging around like knights in unaccustomed chivalry,
Never believing that you hide your chalice well at home and
Drink from it constantly your sweet eternity when you
Are satisfied and alone.