The Citrus Tree Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Crippled men who leave no echoes' who go into their own
Houses or storm away'
They petted the mane of the horse's once,
Far underneath the storms of the mountains
As the buses received a new coat of cowardly paint'
And the butterflies were kissed
By the yellow jackets in the grasses,
And the prettiest girls turned around and around'
Until, in the night, the lovers shocked themselves,
And lightning flashed across the doorjambs of the carport,
As the frogs sang of princes,
And the thief who stole nothing from be took shelter
Up in the citrus tree,
Filled with little blooms like apathetic corsages'and stretched
Himself out like a serpent, waiting
For what was left of heaven to openly chastise me.