Their Sun And Their Moon And Their Stars Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lying as yet unbeknownst to the unicorns
The homeless men and petty thieves take turns
Playing cards and eating canned ham underneath the over pass,
As it rains,
As the sea whispers to them as some sort of anonymous mistress:
But there they are,
Bearded and blue eyed, never having tasted fifty dollars worth
Of lobster,
Their world in a fifty cent can, burning tires—they become
Their own museum exhibit—
They became their own shanty city beneath the moon,
Beneath the concrete—and some, if not many, of them
Die regularly,
Beautifully gapped—toothed, broken—
Clocks that cannot tell time—and I have not known a one of
Them, but I have known their sun and their moon and their stars.