Concessions Of My Language Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Call me by something better,
A golden word,
Not by my Anglo-Saxon utterance,
Something long ago conquered by France:
See, even now she is following
Him into the gym where he will sculpt
Himself like a Mandela of sweat and
Grease. Even though he will never
Last, like David, he will only
Come into her see-sawing for this semester,
She will moan his name, and rejoin
Into him the way the ocean gives
Its crests and caesuras. Rather, I would
Like to be a great author who doesn’t
Have to prepare for his time,
But rides on in primary colors making
Lawyers and politicians fade, but
This can never be true, because people
Need their heroes, and the park is
Lonely, and the moon has its pull:
I should go to her even tonight, walk down
An empty street that two lovers forgot
So long ago. There is only a shadow
Weeping for me that takes her outline,
And in even the faintest light
She is barely real, but accepts
What little talent I can give to her,
And is so polite as to not even mention
My name at all, and hides when drunken
Traffic comes by, conceding that I
Should be alone.