Sunday, August 26, 2007

Poem #238 of 365


i am standing on the gleaming cold tiles
in the over-refrigerated Mexican-themed grocery store
when i would rather still be twisted in my
bedding in my lazy room
and it is too early to be faced with
perfectly-packaged products of commerce
hoisted to perpetual shelves
of seduction
and shopper education,

but turning a corner into a new aisle
smacks you with gag-worthy
smells of cologne and Jergen's,
aftershave and Right Guard--
all the fresh morning people,
brisk and upright,

while all i want is to be on my back
swelling in dreamland,

and my weight is not steady on the
balls and heels of my feet,
in a half-awake daze
i sway--

and i long to collapse on the
make-up applicator brushes,
white puff cotton balls,
and landfill plastic pampers.

and then, of a sudden, there
is a beautiful swell of sound
and it is piano, a gentle palm
spooning my frame.

Moby music has been chosen for this
soundtrack of morning, and i am lulled
into ecstatic stupor as i bend
at the waist, careful not to
fall asleep and fall over
in a gravity swoon,
and i am not falling
but am straightening up
with one medium-size 2.5 pound
bag of Alley Cat food in my arms.

This purchase episode takes
on a dawning elegance,
as Moby's song woos me
through the Fiesta speakers
and accompanies me to the check-out clerk,
who is soft-spoken and wet-lashed,
no doubt the kiss of morning mascara,

and i count my coins
without wrestling my purse
to the floor,
and the echoes of music
fade behind me as i step
through electric doors

to ponder an elder man
who dances in his wheelchair,
with his own gentle awakening,

before the harsh din of day
will work to drown or diminish
his own
early morning song.

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

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