The Tortoise Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Starting out the new day of paper
With a song on the floor, listening to the coquina fireplace
Breathing- breathing with the virgin of Guadalupe on
Her perch-
Alma tucked away across the train tracks into her abode,
The princes turned safely into toads in the truck stops of
The aloes;
And something beautiful picked up after midnight, only to
Be discarded, while little boys, forgetting they are real,
Roll naked down the blue hillsides towards the traffic
That never stops,
So the rest stops remain useless, picking up the long crawlers
Of crepuscule, as the shadows of mailboxes and weathervanes
Make their premeditated dash across meticulate lawns,
Competing in the race the tortoise always wins.