Mornings at Rosedale

by Cam M. Roberts

Mikhail Baryshnikov in Samuel Beckett’s Act Without Words II

(for Mackenzie Finnegan)

How many times have you stirred me
from my slumber in the uncouth mornings
as you were on your way out the door to teach
the kindergartners what this world has to offer?

You must’ve discovered me
on one of the promiscuous couches,
or thereupon the unforgiving floor,
surrendered to my limits
or in my asceticism,
I had no pillow, no stone,
though I kept my fear
of falling off of beds.
My body stayed contorted orderly
like a crippled strand
of something still worth having,
all six feet of me under
my rainbow blanket from Mexico
now rendered thus: a cocoon –
wherein I ruminated in REM cycles
with hopes of consecrating
an eternal metamorphosis.

You sounded-off startling
voices I never knew you possessed,
in dark deep resonant registers,
syncopated and cadenced commands
with monosyllabic words,
first a matriarch, then a sergeant, and so on…

Time to wake up
Class starts at eight
Come on, sit up
You will be late

I’m recalled to life
this very instant
out of dreams
out of comas

The front door would close, soberingly.
Soon after, the shutting of a car door,
then the engine starting,
and you driving away.

And, the world would go on
with
or without
me.

© CMR, 2013