The Armpits Of The Tide Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sugar in all of its colors poured from the moon
As she shakes through the night,
Face so scarred and beautiful above the traffic;
But nothing truly artistic about her thievery-
The things she steals every night
While you sleep across the train tracks that glow in
The parallelisms they were made to do-
But you barely come anymore,
As your children grow up
And the reindeer step over the empty glass bottles
In the ramshackle parks
Where no geniis can possibly live
Any longer:
No more hope in the world she steals from-
The waves like crippled tinfoil
Balled into the armpits of the tide- even oceans
Glowing in the emptiness that she somehow
Takes away in the paradox
Of the world that she makes her own.