The Barrel Of A Gun Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The serious mountains were laughing
Underneath the sun—
They got all of their days together, or
At least they seemed to
Anyways—
And the snow-angels—
Fell down all of their make-believe slopes,
And it seemed to be beautiful for
A little while
With all of the primary colored helicopters
Watching,
And I buying ice-cream for my Chinese
Wife—while the dogs ran under the gun,
And the mirages of the televisions
Echoed passed me—
Someone else was speaking Latin,
Until the hallways were splashed with
The impossible lights—
And she loved her husband, while
The hummingbird floated before
Her—straight as an arrow over the
Bouquets of the orchard,
Until, finally, the corpse had to die,
And I thought about calling you—anyways—
And you children laughed like echoes in
The playgrounds of the middle of
Their school days—
And the languishing cenotaphs which could
Not be spelled correctly for anyone,
Still remembering—
Had to go to sleep, their thoughts heady
From the cotton candy of their
Anyways—until you loved someone else's
Husband and put him straight to bed—
And the afternoons echoed like bottle rockets
Over their sooty penumbras,
Until their birthstones were all collected,
And I remembered recalling you, anyways,
Promising all of my kisses pressed to you
Anyways all like bouquets beneath
The barrel of the gun.