Journalism Poem by Robert Rorabeck

He has a gun to his head,
And he is smiling.
They hold the barrel to his temple,
As they join together in a Persian bed.
He says, f! ck you to them,
As they swap spit/
Soon they will give up
And have the gardener cut off his head/
There are so many sad children
Unattended to in the garden
Buried up to their necks in the roses
Needing watering,
But their parents are careless if faithful,
And busily copulating
While her old suitor lays tied up
And hungry watching from the edge,
Like an early wanderer lost on an
Incriminating shore as the
Sun moans and it rises.
In her eyes are the last memories of
All the things they had done,
But with laughter and his name calling,
She is the first destroyer
Coming down for the morning:
Counting the stairs,
Each one a nursery rhyme’s
Anticipation.
And breakfast? And breakfast?
The gardener is too busy honing
The blade of excommunicative reaping,
While even outside the birds are singing
And down beneath the rose’s red blushing,
The children buried unto their necks
Are whispering,
While in the Victorian yard
A young foal lays eaten away
At the ass and neck/
While the wolves lay fat in the forest sleeping.
Are you getting all this?
As the gardener cuts off his head
On his birthday,
Hitting the notes of the stairs
And he goes away while
The immaculate house singsonging
The perfectly recorded hours.