Erised, #99

Before you know it, the morning
comes, and what lovely illusions
you’ve sautéed your mind in are torn,
before you know it
from you, baby from the womb, bun
from the oven. No bit of scorn
will save the waxing dream, begun
too late, dead too soon, a forlorn
scowl spreading across your stunned
face. The new dawning being born
before you know it.

How soft and warm were the false lips
of your fake lover, the fingers
which knew how to touch you, the grip,
how soft and warm,
of a deft craftsman, connoisseur
of your body. You would be stripped
of all wanting for this touch, were
it real, willing to give up, skip
out on, surrender up, confer
worldly possessions and submit.
How soft and warm.

Not much longer are you allowed
to stay here gripping at blankets,
groping for false idols, bowing,
not much longer,
to scents of desire, secret
self-touching, self-loathing, allow
yourself to barter the day, get
nothing in return. Make a vow,
promise to the clock that’s sitting
on the dresser. Soon, but not now.
Not much longer.

Before you know it, the day wanes
and what plans you have concocted
find themselves twisting down the drain,
before you know it,
washed away. By seven o’clock
the sun– which poked through blinds in vain
to arouse you, surrenders, chalks
it up to double booking, feigns
indifference, chokes back tears, mocks
heavenly orbs that cry rain– sets.
Before you know it.

How soft and warm the comforter
with its pleats and fuzzy fabric,
its double breasted quilt, demur.
How soft and warm,
lavishing the skin with ticking
meant to simulate fur, the pure
joy, first time our mums wrapped us thick
after feeding, swaddled, secure.
Why not, embrace a slow day? Trick
of cloth and plastic, light obscured,
how soft and warm.

Not much longer now, an hour
before the clock strikes tomorrow.
Wander to the bathroom, shower,
not much longer,
shave, remove a day’s plaque, forego
the scale’s invite, devour
the bathroom and kitchen, so-so
chinese, old cake, oil, flour,
half a bar of soap, cookie dough,
everything seen, sweet or sour.
Not much longer.

Before you know it, back asleep,
dreaming and planning the morning
jog, breakfast, to-do list. Sweeping away
before you know it,
the dried tears that adorn
your inner eye, third eye, weeping
for the daylight wasted, unborn
jokes and poems, muses that sneak
out carrying heels, well worn
sneakers on feet. You leave creeping,
before you know it.

How soft and warm the morning sun
welcoming your return, penance
unneeded, the cool grass begun,
soft and warm,
at the sidewalk’s edge, an intense
aroma of new flowers, new buds,
the spring morning’s offer, deference
to haggard toes and unbegun
chores. The new day’s dew condensed
atop blades while chipmunks have fun.
How soft and warm.

Not much longer till we forget
our troubles, our sloth, the tepid
and overcast blankets that bit,
not much longer,
down on us, that almost did
us in. Now, you must admit
how lovely the day, how solid
and calming the sun, the sweat
rolling off your forehead, the kid
inside repaid his empty debts.
Not much longer.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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