A Slumber's Tale

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A Slumber’s Tale

“You must be more alive than life; only then will

death’s slumber become sweet.”

--Kamand Kojouri.

I find such a comfort

in my morning routine.

In retirement, I put total trust

in my internal clock,

that mysterious impish something

that keeps track of time

as my REMs quiver like moth wings

around the back porch light.

The mere act of awakening

as the new day greets and beckons to me,

is a birth-like moment, as if I had been

swimming in deep dark water,

and then to have my head break through

to the surface, gulping air, celebrating,

getting a grip on a fresh steaming slice of life.

I sit placidly on the edge of the bed,

catching my breath,

letting my heart rate slow down,

letting rejuvenated blood rush

out into my sleepy extended limbs,

trying to recall some of the dream

I had just exited;

the back in the Navy dream,

or back in college wandering hallways

hoping to find a classroom,

or back in the office,

or back in a play, when I cant find

the dressing room, and I don’t know

my lines, and I am naked,

or spending mundane time

in a familiar city, home or job, rife with devuja

moments, a known landscape perhaps

in a parallel dimension where

I live a different life, before

shuffling and staggering

to the bathroom

to recycle hydration, and

already consumed foot stuffs;

a place that is a Mecca

for OCD tendencies--

the hairbrushes and comb in their spot,

just so, with the mouthwash, tooth brush

and paste side by side

with my wife’s.

As I limber up my arthritic fingers

to gather my lifesaver-colored

pills for the day, ten bottles to plunder,

pills doled out into green plastic cubes.

I say aloud the names of each medication,

both as a memory exercise, and the comfort

of knowledge, imagining a shard of control.

All this before the shower and breakfast,

which is the stuff of a different poem,

some other comfortable chronicle.

A possum visits us

at night, leaving its scat by

basement door; a gift. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub