The Lips Of A Fox Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They are selling something to the black men,
As to the doors the step, and in their colors dimmed-
The swing-sets emptied behind them,
And the airplanes flying stiffed winged through the
Rains, over the overpasses
Where the flea markets are sleeping, and my words
Drool out as if from a shell of a sleeping terrapin:
There he lies pressed to the lips of a fox
Weaned off his vineyard,
No longer dreaming that the stewardesses will ever
Come down to him.