Who We Intend To Be Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A poem of horses outside my door;
It does not belong to me,
But then it is there in the darkness,
And tomorrow I want to ask you what it
Is like to be in this world a beautiful
Woman,
The trinkets of your eyes a revelry for
All kinds of men,
Bosom the chest wounds of penultimate
Wildflowers;
Or if you get jealous of your betters and
In betweens:
You told me at our last meeting that
I should buy a boat instead of a house,
And then you stared out into the intercostals
And a boat just seemed to appear at your
Very wish;
And I wondered if it was your boat,
And where you had gone even though you
Were still baring your shoulders right
There beside me on the bench for the hour
We shared;
And the day should not be any longer than your
Hair,
While my better and more consistent muses
Are sharing their times with their more likewise
Men,
While Diana is traveling around town,
Her nameless daughter transforming in the daycare
Of the stars
Wandering what love truly was-
Then I want to go underneath the bridge with you
And open up,
And say I am yours without knowing what I
Truly am,
While all these reoccurrences of daylight tend to become
Meaningless until we finally understand and
Disappear entirely into the occurrence of who we
Are, or taken together, at least,
Who we intend to be.