Truce With The Sea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Imperfect, underneath an overpass,
Underneath the stolen moon- while bicycles
Recline in the dark shadows,
And turtles have more than one shell:
In the morning they will be selling outside of
The school,
Outside of the church,
And the beautiful perfumes of the jasmine
Will be gone,
So you will smell each fine blade of grass
Where the cicadas will then be sleeping
In their new change of clothes,
As the trucks drive by,
Delivering produce and the news:
And then you will see for yourself who is
Homeless and who is rich,
And you can reach up and touch your face
Just as the brown women are yelling
And selling things to the light-
For it will be the hour when all of the lighthouses
Are blind, and all of the sailors are enjoying
A truce with the sea.