Sunday's Churchgoers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There are dead horses underground,
And there are people underground,
Some you know and
Some who know you.
When she walks by your crypt,
She looks so pretty-
Her lips pout the chartreuse
Eloquence of damp butterflies
On the battlefield,
All the sleeping men with open minds,
Their stomachs’ new orgasms
Pollinate the field in many ways;
Their spores fly to glitter her eyelashes,
When she comes walking
Working after midnight,
All the dirty boys buried next to you
Wake up and offer her the worthless
Confederacy,
Everyone’s spilled dreams
Licked up by the cats leaping out of the gutter.
Her fishnet stocking have her trapped
All night under the big willow.
Where you sit on the old marble
Facing eastwards, waiting redemption.
She’s says over and over again
The you love her,
But those are just whispers in the
Empty spaces between where cars move-
Maybe as she moans with unevolved hunger,
She makes the knife move
Spreading her wrists with
Strawberry jam. The crows gather
All morning
Gossiping like churchgoers on Sunday.