painting from wallpapersjpg.com
A Slumber’s Tale
“You must be more alive than life; only then will
death’s slumber become sweet.”
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.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub