image borrowed from bing
“My smile on Mondays is as insincere as
a Rush Limbaugh apology.”--Anonymous.
Awakened loudly by Z.Z. Top,
prompting me to be a sharp dressed man;
reaching wrong twice before the damn singing
from the clock-radio was silenced.
The room felt cold, so regret put its fist
into the small of my back regarding
the partially-open bedroom window--
the traffic noise from the street
was already heavily & loudly
trains clanking & blasting
shrilly, all playing their
early morning urban symphony.
The bulky quilt my mother had made
was pulled up to my chin;
it whiffed of cat & night sweat;
the insane warmth from my curled-up body
encased me in inertia, made me
re-imagine the Monday dream scenario--
you know the one where I call in sick,
slip back to sleep until 10 a.m.
then spend the whole day
sitting around in my gym duds
& dirty underwear listening to jazz & blues,
& perhaps composing some of my own
on the piano.
I opened my eyes, embracing mostly darkness
as the morning’s brightness stirred up thirty
kinds of shadows dancing around the room;
there was no object perception, hadn’t been any
since I was four years old.
I tripped on one of my dress shoes
moving sleepily from the bed
to the bathroom. Living alone,
I felt free to yelp & shout shit
The hot shower pounded my scalp,
kick-started my heart,
cleared my head; still loving
the lemon herbal scent
of my shampoo, & the clean floral
smell of my thick fuzzy towel
on my unshaven face.
Coltrane serenaded me
throughout my bathroom habituals;
the English Leather splashed on
after playing kissey-face with my Norelco
was extra spicy.
Picking out my clothes was easy;
the braille tags were still extant
& my sainted mother had arranged
everything according to my wishes.
I always enjoy the feel of my silk ties,
picking the red dragon one
I was pretty sure, wrapping it tightly
over the left & right sides, making
a wide knot, & checking the length
until it just touched my belt buckle,
then tossing it cavalierly over my shoulder,
keeping it out of the instant cinamon/apple
oatmeal & soy milk, accompanied
by two pieces of Texas toast
slathered in real butter
and a large cup of black coffee.
Soon I had given Butch some good-day
strokes after checking his crunchers
& water bowl, slipped into my Bogart
trench coat, picked up my leather briefcase,
my red & white folding cane,
& was double-locking my apartment door
when my cell phone rang, or more accurately
Michael Jackson sang Beat It.
It was Jimmy, he was already here,
double-parked outside, telling me
that I needed to haul butt.
“Be right there, asshole--tell me
if my socks don’t match this time.
Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics
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