To Me Anyway Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All the story does it as if it was told,
And there is nothing new about it, and I am hung over:
Maybe I am even well hung; maybe I am even black
And well hung,
Given to the proportion of my phone calls,
And how you haven’t answered me, just as I haven’t
Answered you,
Just as this isn’t football, Kelly: just as this is even a new
Game,
And you haven’t as yet really been playing; and I am
As of yet cold and all a foot,
And this really isn’t a mystery, because I am still all strung out
On rum,
So I haven’t as yet considered all of the things you haven’t
Yet been saying to me:
And yet, I know you will as yet will:
Say to me nothing, Kelly, because you are just a lucky
Catch, Kelly: what are you really, underneath the rain and all of
The hedgerows:
What is this satire you haven’t yet been complaining about;
And maybe I am fully done, maybe I am so beautiful in angora
As to be what the other ladies have already been talking about:
Now while my mother’s typewriter flumes,
I am like my very own Yosemite: I am coming home, and even
Though I am not quite beautiful enough for you, Sharon,
The path are as easy as they are known:
And I am still young and struggling; and I still love you,
And this is the ocean of your early morning, so that by tomorrow
You might not even recognize me, because you are always so beautiful.
Maybe even by tomorrow Hollywood will have spilled away just
How beautiful you are to me anyway.