To Awaken Again Too Many Times Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I suppose that I am here, even though I wont be touching down
In the firehouse sea,
As I remember the clusters of all the absentmindedly
Glorious houses
That will never return again: the glory days are over,
The speak easies have passed out,
And my love for white women is altogether over; so that my colors
Have changed,
So still I blend in, but wait for a mother who has passed herself
Between the countries: who has probably been shot at
While stripping naked across the frontera:
Who makes me want better Spanish, or to at least to call up the
Verbs to jolt her into another metamorphosis that will
Send her entire hundred pound body hurling towards
My lips,
Even though there really is no ice-cream, and all of the dreams
Have been forgotten into the overused beds of hotels,
And all of the old girls I knew are done showing their legs,
And are now embarrassed, though with my apathy;
For now I only have Alma to cry for,
And the knife wound seeds she has planted in me, who are certain
To vanish should I have to awaken again too many times.