The Last Breakfast Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The last breakfast entangling in the fishtailed palms—
The last glow of Easter's resurrection
Before crepuscule beds over the mailboxes and housewives turn in:
Neighborhood of abandoned sunlight,
Softening structures, awakening crickets and cicadas who come
And change and drip down the armpits of
The cypress trees: beauty of natural delusion above which
The airplanes continue to fester and effervesce—
Shadows spread across baseball diamonds,
Night girls follow the railroad tracks to work—and the memory here
Of you feels like a song that has slipped itself away,
Winnowed and submissive as the trains glide like angels—
And the tourists who do not belong here look out
At the darkest night never wondering what they are supposed to see.