The Shells Of Their Homes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Entirely folded up yellow angels,
Their wings pinned back
Don't have to talk about opportunity—
They have the sun,
Busy as a man in his orchard
Spinning things off—
The cars like ants beneath him do not
Wonder where they are going—
They are just going—
Seeming to follow him somehow
And the angels around the atmosphere
Lit up like a boisterous torch over
The interstate—
Until they lay down like venison upon
His crackling shoulders
And look into her eyes as she comes over
Them, luminous in her stolen church
And placing them like shadows into
The shells of their homes.