Showing The True Color
when i wake up this early morning
she was not already beside me.
i do not want to rise and fold the blanket
and go somewhere else.
or read the papers, or sip coffee, there is
this laziness that infects my bones, a disease
of meaning, another slow day, the routine is
eating me, and i behave
in a manner that i am like a lame duck being
aimed at by all the bystanders
i am opening my eyes, and the ceiling is off
white, it has been that way ever since i got married,
why did i leave it that way? i have the money to have
it painted pure white, like a very clean slate where
i can write what i must mean, but i didn't, i let things
that way they are from the beginning, and perhaps
they will still be at the end. This is what i do next,
always always i do this: i rise from my bed, go to my
circular mirror and look at my face, they also do it,
and then i touch my cheeks and chin, feeling the roughness
of the beard, how they have grown long and so untidy,
the razor is ready, and the soap and water, but this time
i will do what i cannot do the other days of my life,
i will not trim the unruly ones, i will not wash my face,
i may slap myself, and then i give the mirror the grin
of the man that is used to all these doubts and shame.
i will tell it, i am now myself.And then i will the bathroom
another tune for my whistle, nobody, nobody but me.
RIC S. BASTASA