Plastic Roses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Primitive candle glowing like
Rum in my head—like one last wishy-washy
Dream
Abed in a trailer park of cathedrals
And you can walk down from
There—
Down from the white trash basins that sing of
The sweat of cousins,
And collect their tears,
Like panhandling doves: you can follow
The medians with the migrating bears—
And you can set out on a quest
To the flea markets of the gossip towns:
It all lays waiting for you
At the very end as the same day we supposed—
Lying down together in a graveyard of
Plastic roses—
Cadavers taking another shot,
Stewardesses doing another round.