Their Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bromeliads underneath a kleptomaniac
Sun
Stick their claret and filigreed tongues out at the
Bruised housewives in a space of
The backyard which might as well be their garden
That slopes away past the
Chlorinated veins of the suburban mines of a pool,
And down to the shallow estuaries
Where the fanciful otters are pretending to be in
Some kind of fable,
The housewives coming to them for gifts,
And the alligators smiling, wordless, floating with
The messages of conquistadors stolen away so many
Years ago,
That were surely once important, but now, mutely coy,
Not even these favorite green thieves can tell what
Might have once been their absolute purpose.