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Poet Phil Tobin, a poet from Somerville, writes, “The poem I’m sending comes about as the result of the death of a student of mine back along when I was a H.S. Latin teacher. She was sixteen and her boyfriend was driving drunk. If you think my poem is appropriate for your column, maybe it will give some of those predisposed to driving drunk a second thought.”

Phil Tobin

The Roses

The Roses that I gave her
She never got to see
And when the preacher said his prayer
Their eyes were all on me.

Well, whiskey don’t belong behind a steering wheel
The Roses that I gave her
Are dying in a field.

And when they laid her down to rest
I said my last goodbye
And on that day and in that way
A cowboy learned to cry.

Well, whiskey don’t belong behind a steering wheel
The Roses that I gave her
Are dying in a field.
And if some day
It goes away
And time heals all the hurt,
I’ll never buy another Rose
For anyone but her.

— Phil Tobin

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