Halfway Knew What I Mean Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ve dropped the book of Wallace Stevens in the crook of
My fold out bed, Alma;
Along with my empty liquor bottle; but lucky me, I have another
That isn’t so empty;
And now these things spill, and I wish that I had known you before
That you were real,
While all of this was going down, and your children were still capped
In your virgin town:
Oh, Alma, I cannot sing- I can only stutter after school in the depths of
Apoplectic weather; and the white curls only find me
Halfway curious, while the ball is being passed around,
But even in the penumbras of moon glows the grass is so curious
And so green;
But Alma, oh Alma: If you only halfway knew what I mean.