Who You Are Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Scarred gray-
Today is a sepia holiday:
Knocking on your womb, wanting in:
Wanting to prick you with the mammalian barb,
Dreaming a little of owning a boat,
And taking you out in the scarred webs the
Spider-sun spins,
Each wave a crucifixion, a lunge a woman throws,
Rippling herself into the shore:
Like the hood of a car after a head on collision,
But you have no room for aphorisms,
As you are the steady contributions of inebriation,
A failed lover now an impotent nemesis,
An entire period of artistic discovery, the fallow
Enterprise of breath;
Once so close, I could have looked out the window
And seen you playing the guitar,
As I drove around you like a pointless ghost-
Now further away than the dimmest star,
I swear by Christ I know who you are.