What You Do To Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Because I can never be
As beautiful as my mother,
And because I can never be
As truthful as my father was,
Nor will I ever own a winning racehorse,
I am writing to you now,
Because you owe me nothing but an ear:
And you are too late to know,
That these words are blackmail,
Because I cry to tell the world what
You’ve done: never coming by,
Taking strange boys out to dinner,
And enjoying the air and satellites
Without me: The revolutions of your
Society in the communal salts,
In the work hall’s dim lights,
Because I see you there
Kissing a man you know less than me:
Just because you work with him
When no one else is around,
Saying his name in the dark
And groaning,
Because you love me but you cannot care:
To know that I am weeping for you,
And casually recording all the pains,
The gentle machoisms
Your instincts gravitate you towards,
Until you grow old and mindful,
And might sit down next to the lamp
And by it read of me the thoughts of you,
Thoughts you couldn’t imagine:
The world you hang is already passing,
But here is an immortal bouquet
Set off to the corner,
Or a sweater you can wear
When you want something on your
Shoulders- a reminder
That I will holdout through the pain,
Until I meet you some time,
So you might see for yourself
what you do to me.