I suppose that I am here, even though I wont be touching down <br />In the firehouse sea, <br />As I remember the clusters of all the absentmindedly <br />Glorious houses <br />That will never return again: the glory days are over, <br />The speak easies have passed out, <br />And my love for white women is altogether over; so that my colors <br />Have changed, <br />So still I blend in, but wait for a mother who has passed herself <br />Between the countries: who has probably been shot at <br />While stripping naked across the frontera: <br />Who makes me want better Spanish, or to at least to call up the <br />Verbs to jolt her into another metamorphosis that will <br />Send her entire hundred pound body hurling towards <br />My lips, <br />Even though there really is no ice-cream, and all of the dreams <br />Have been forgotten into the overused beds of hotels, <br />And all of the old girls I knew are done showing their legs, <br />And are now embarrassed, though with my apathy; <br />For now I only have Alma to cry for, <br />And the knife wound seeds she has planted in me, who are certain <br />To vanish should I have to awaken again too many times.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-awaken-again-too-many-times/
