Underneath The Sun Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Copper plated world filled to
The gills with
The hard evidence of the places
I guess we have to go,
To end up-
Coming home again, touching down
Just as the mirages of
Airplanes,
And all of this a busy place,
Like minded,
Filled with little hope: in spume of
Words and roe,
Like lights out in the quieted streets,
Like venison still with beating
Hearts
Newly born and walking down to your
Pretty house
Where you haven’t guessed yet that I love
You,
As I lay out in your yard underneath
The heavens, waiting to
Be the metamorphosis of anything,
Drooling with the crickets
Underneath the mailboxes- the jasmine make
A necklace of perfume,
And in the morning the roman candles will
Bloom,
And each of the comely housewives will grab
Their keys and strut across their
Yards,
Their children will go again to schools:
And I will teach them underneath the sun,
The very sun where the angels whisper
And the faucets run.