The Very Same Shade Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When the clouds go again over the sun,
The flies come out from the echinopsis and from the
Purple armpits of cypress,
And they go about in their own fair, tasting the
Flesh for two weeks of whomever they care;
But cannot be bothered by the housewives driving inside
Their cars-
With soft lights, going to the Laundromat, not knowing
That their very own concessions have made them
An arcade
For the very hearts and eyes of young boys left from
The school, to enrich alongside the
Clever roadway in the very same shade.