Poem: Of a Morning

We can no more believe in the face we're given than in our recorded voice . . . both seem to belong to someone else.

Of a Morning When I am showered of a morning,     have brushed my hair and shaved I know that what looks back at me,     as I wipe the last trace of foam     from that steamed and pampered face,     is as good as it will get     and a sort of amazement overwhelms me One you’ve maybe felt as well The best that face can do is so unlike myself This childishness I carry,     this constant feeling of wow and yeah,     isn’t even there among the lines,     no matter how plumped and primped the face Except perhaps for the eyes     and they need glasses now as well A tiresome theme, overworked, old as love Universal though, you’ll know it now or later,     this voice that speaks all languages What surprises life has had for me,     under rocks, where I still peek as if a child The various disasters and incredible good fortune     caught me with the same astonished smile A fabulous puzzle, just more pieces now,     where age has caught me still a kid Night people,     the ones who leave my house     when I am sandy-eyed     and much in need of sleep I take my leave to bed     and they take theirs,     to those remaining hours     beckoning them, before the dawn How can it be and why     does this anomaly exist? This differencing of turned clocks Habit perhaps, my Pavlov’s dogging     of a lifetime early risen     and all those years I dragged myself     from decades of warm beds Unable (unwilling?) now to change I drop to bed in soundless bliss,     scrunched away and tucked Their leave taken to pubs and conversation,     the All-Nighters,     lost among threads of theoretical debate     that daylight won’t allow And I hunger for that, jealous     of their aptitude for night, remembering Yet the days of bull-sessions are not enough,     though I remember their pull on me     and the intensity, the upper with no downer Would I have it back, perhaps or maybe not After all, I speak of jealousy and hunger too,     but it’s there, available     and I have opted for my bed A Night Person once myself, no more

This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection THE SMELL OF TWEED AND TOBACCO available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats.