What I Already Told You Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Under the influences of my class,
I am getting sedentary;
I don’t go out and shop for shells,
I don’t wear my jean-jacket,
Or walk my dog beside the red diamond
Underneath the sweaty palmettos-
I no longer jog brown-eyed after
Midnight to catch glimpses of sweet little
Girls unhinging of their dresses from
The blown-glass boudoirs;
And my memory is fading-
I am no longer the captain of this ship,
My body doing things without me I can’t remember,
Kissing only the cadences of early morning or
Evening insects who think they are musicians,
Never going near the hideouts or grottos of
Old lovers newly christened with the names of
Men who remind them of their fathers;
But while I am still somehow in control of
The least of my faculties,
Though torn out and burned and wandering the
Yard downward like a fading paper airplane,
Remembering his college years,
The liberal arts football teams who could never score
A goal,
Getting drunk and bowling instead of teaching the
Classes he couldn’t afford to school anyways,
I should say that I love you,
And given pause, I should say again I love you,
And I am not Herman Melville,
And I am not Ernest Hemmingway,
Nor Mark Twain,
Nor Steinbeck,
But I’ve ridden my bicycle through your neighborhood
Even while the curtains were closing,
The working middle-class returning to get drunk
And eventually sleep,
And if I cannot remember who I am,
At least I am able to recall what I already told you.