The Televisions And The Christmas Trees Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Down to the slow plagiarisms—after the cats get tired
Playing with their mice and visa-versa—
Down to the open mouthed mailboxes of crepuscule—
And the last tags of the fire around the dance—
In the troubling diction that is muted by dinner,
When all of the spent fireworks lie in the grasses—
And housewives go back to pretending to be someone else—
It is the time when the diamonds drink the sea,
And the toy dogs come indoors to bask beneath the strange visions
Of the televisions and the Christmas trees.