Gunfighter Of Roses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Put me in a coffin all beautiful at last,
A gunfighter of roses beneath the
Over pass;
Dressed up and laid out there so sweet
And fine, in the middle of the weekend
Flea Market with nothing on my mind:
(Nothing on my mind.)
The Mexican wives with maize and
Turquoise tigers; praying to saints where
The herds of cars bluster,
They seem to sweep like four-legged angels
Through the sky;
And I’d think to say I love you,
But I had to go and die: (I had to go and die) ,
So there’s no more reason for making bread,
And you can pass right through me with
Unfaithful thoughts so untrue in your head;
And your gilded lover holding hands,
Buying anything you want for you second hand.
They’ve stolen my guns from me anyway,
And tossed them into the unruly sea;
There’s no danger of me awaking and calling out
You pinstriped dilatants in the afternoon,
Your tinhorn firefighter so mustachioed and pressed,
Though I wished you could see how beautiful
It is now that you mean nothing at all to me,
(Nothing at all to me) ,
The lid of heartless wood closing above my chest.