Thefts Of Nocturnal Thievery Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Canoe of the lavender gut in the tight rope of
The canal
Spending words into dusk when it should have
Gone to school,
And underneath it all of the soggy fireworks:
And in the shade truancies of panhandling
The blue gills look up to like
Cardboard preschoolers: what things do these
Wilds know,
Brushing the simulacrums of suburbia,
And the things coming home with the traffic
Listening to their music. Do they really know
How to wonder where they belong,
Or perceive the telltale signs of their children
Linger half naked in the Faberge oasis of the
Well mowed yard:
Well, for them the moon is just the goddess of
Their adolescent loves,
But she will never come down for them,
High in the thefts of nocturnal thievery.