Wakings

I am riding in a bus...a cab?...

watching the road ahead unwind

through a shadowless desert glare. 

I sit behind the driver, separated

from him by a glass partition.

We stop.  The driver leaves his seat,

turns and comes to where I am. 

He is leaning over me.

He is saying something. Is he asking me

to join him in the front?

His face reminds me of someone,

someone who is dead.

I am confused and cannot move or speak.

This is absurd.

I wait for him to ask again;  instead

I hear the song of an insistent mockingbird

and raise my head. 

The lighted numbers on the clock

tell that dawn is hours away.

I rise and in darkness take

the familiar route: three steps and touch

the corner of the bureau, leftward then,

reaching for the bathroom door.

Back to bed, relieved, I contemplate

turning on the light,

lapsing into printed page

and turning off my mind.

I do not want to see that road again

unwinding into a sunless glare beyond

this local time and place.

I do not want to face

that half-remembered face.

But now a customary light

lights the room.  The mockingbird

is silent.  In the wistaria that droops

above the window, a dove is flittering. 

Twisting and bobbing her head, she calls

Hitherthitherwhither?  Hitherthitherwhither?

Has she forgotten where she put her nest?

I am tired still;  in disarray.

Too much coffee, too much poetry last night.

I must  change my life.   Again.

"Calm down,"  I tell the anxious dove

as I unhinge,

rise,  stretch,  begin

to face an uncontrollable day

unrolling towards another night.

Wakings

I am riding in a bus...a cab?...

watching the road ahead unwind

through a shadowless desert glare. 

I sit behind the driver, separated

from him by a glass partition.

We stop.  The driver leaves his seat,

turns and comes to where I am.  

He is leaning over me.

He is saying something.  Is he asking me

to join him in the front?

His face reminds me of someone--someone

who is dead.

I am confused and cannot move or speak.

This is absurd.

I wait for him to ask again;  instead

I hear the song of an insistent mockingbird

and raise my head. 

The lighted numbers on the clock

show that dawn is hours away.

I rise and in the darkness take

the usual route: three steps and touch

the corner of the bureau, leftward then,

reaching for the bathroom door.

Back to bed, relieved, I contemplate

turning on the light,

lapsing into printed page

and turning off my mind.

I do not want to see that road again

unwinding into a sunless glare beyond

this local time and place.

I do not want to face

that half-remembered face.

But now a customary light

lights the room.  The mockingbird

is silent.  In the wistaria that droops

above the window, a dove is flittering. 

Twisting and bobbing her head, she calls

Hitherthitherwhither?  Hitherthitherwhither?

Has she forgotten where she put her nest?

I am tired still;  in disarray.

Too much coffee, too much poetry last night.

I must  change my life.   Again.

 "Calm down,"   I tell the anxious dove

as I rise, unhinge,

stretch,  begin

to face another uncontrollable day

unrolling toward the night.