Underneath The Overpasses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Then it feels like soft gold- worn by Alma:
And they make love again
Only to disappear like her rabbits and the grass grows:
The foliage crenulates awaiting her overtime
Heroes and the songs of
Their epic exploitations: they get penny candy on their
Bicycles:
They masturbate underneath the healthy trees in the park
Overeagerly before bedtime,
Spilling of their abuse into graveyards- even handling apples
Wrong,
As their grandmothers turn away and follow the old
Tramlines
Underneath which the wolves are always leaping and snapping
Until they get somewhere along the sidesteps of
Metamorphosis:
Maybe then there is an entire sea all the way beneath them,
And even she is casting off her close and telling her sisters,
Who are busily working the washing machines,
Or handling their tomorrows into flea markets
Underneath the overpasses:
Whispering as light as a homeopathic armory of cinnamon
Of this good, good deeds.