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In The Morning
In the morning, he argued with his wife,
that's how the day began, so he decided
to leave the apartment early, take his time
getting to work. He rode an extra stop
heading downtown and walked up through the park,
bought coffee at the pricey coffee bar,
wanting to treat himself, to salve his mood.
He was first to show up to the office.
Packages were leaning on the jamb.
He keyed the lock and wandered though the door.
Inside, the lights were off; he left them off.
They'd come on soon enough when the others came.
At his desk, he scanned his mail, then read an item
on the council member who once shook his hand.
A theater review of a new play
starring a well-known film star caught his eye:
she was stiff and ill-equipped to act on stage,
yet stunningly beautiful, dangerously so,
the critic wrote. He faintly shook his head.
Dangerous, he knew just what that meant.
Out of the dark a voice spilled down the hall.
A rustling, as if somebody were lost.
And then the voice again, deep, almost threatening.
He's not sure why, but for a breath or two
he thought the voice was that of an intruder
and this morning was the last one of his life.
The books on the shelf swam in half-focus.
OK, he thought, but the voice did not return.
He thought then of a book he'd read last week,
in which a character takes his own life
by hammering a pair of scissors though
his sternum with the heel of his own shoe.
He felt the flesh above his heart and tried
to visualize the passage of the blades.
He looked down at his shoes. The toes were scuffed.
Tonight he will not wander on the way,
or be hit by the bus he's heard about
(the one that cuts young men down in their primes).
He's not so young or so naive to think
that his death would be that wry or notable.
He'll take the old streets in reverse, the ones,
traced once more, that describe his daily round.
David Yezzi
*************
:hi:
RL
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