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rituals of dawn

It's his 80th birthday,
and Jack Lalane raves on
about the junk we put into
our bodies.
Boils, pimples, aging and death
scream down like bad health bombs
upon our foolish heads.
As he lectures he pumps
the barbell up and down
like some ancient hypnotic
device. He has wrinkles older
than I am, but his biceps
agelessly expand.

You wouldn't wake your dog up
in the morning and give him coffee,
a donut, and a cigarette,
would you? he asks, and as he stands,
sipping carrot juice in the Southern
California dawn, a verdant light pours in
through picture windows framed
in shades of palm,
and rollicking white puppies
circle him like earthbound doves.

But then the dog is back
to wake me up again,
his wet grey nose insistent,
and I knock over last night's
final glass of scotch, cursing
and he shies away, then pokes
once more with that sharp nose
as if to say get up, let me out,
make coffee, you lazy bastard,
and how about
a light?




Michael McNeilley


© 1997

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