To Her Forgotten Name Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A rain of pedophiles over the soft hearts of the fort,
Where the soldiers are now all but finally gone,
Their fireworks the spent fireworks of a more apoplectic world;
Only one of them remains, and he is like a windmill,
Calling down to the orange groves as across the burnished waves:
He is shouting from far away:
Featureless, a barren king: his wife all the delightful pestilence
Of a midway on parade, all those nubs of lights
And loudmouths guns gone into the grave,
All the fanciful illusions melted like wax into unspent wishes:
And now he sings to her like a cut throat from his high
And cannoned ditches,
Over the opened beds of the conquistadors where the roses
Grow, giving their colors over to her forgotten name.