Immortal Gold Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I keep reminiscing
A cool sweet gun behind my back,
A pop barrel of kill
Joy,
And children’s rhymes are selling smoking
Tires in the sky:
I ain’t going to die,
Not this: I am the surprising exoskeleton
Who fell asleep under the bus
During math;
And that’s all they’re going to get,
Custer’s Last Stand left a small cleft in the
Unseemly mountains
As I crawl through, trucking my lunch of
Cold ham and cheese folded up in plaid,
Putting on a wolfish camouflage,
I’ll pluck straight up to god
And steal a kiss in the deepest, oldest caracole
Of his cheek,
And sit at his good side for all week,
Clicking my heels
And remembering my stride,
Because of all the things I told you and didn’t
Hide,
While the day and ride were long and tried:
Even if I never got a tip for the effluvious timber
Of my immortal gold,
I get paid cause I ain’t
Going to die.