Who I Am Supposed To Be Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Couples look beautiful when they’re not yuppies-
Slightly beatnik, selling wines under
Pike’s Peak where the cars are making test runs
And the mountain goats are horny.
My mother was born around there- You can look her
Up, but I am unsure about my real voice;
It seems to me to be calling from anywhere,
So I don’t know what position I have to play,
But I want to do good for you- I want to show you who
I really am. That’s why I drink my dram-
To get healthy; but I’ve lived out of a suitcase for ten
Years. I haven’t bought any clothes in all that time.
All my jeans have holes. I couldn’t get up in front of the
Class even though I know what I’ll be selling-
I can’t imagine how I made it through college-
I am very poor at writing good prose, but I think of your
Eyes- Your eyes like sad tennis courts, your eyes like a poet’s
Color, giving of shades of green, all the clichés of
Ancient societies in the sea- My words have always failed
You before, but if they ever succeed I will request a tiny
Sliver of your polygamy- And success will be when your lips
Part as if about to disclose a thought of my name,
Close again, become of the resolute distance of all of our
Kind. In more lucid incidences, I think of William Carlos
Williams. Maybe that is who I am or, for you,
Who I am supposed to be.