Found Poem #7

RECOGNITION

Imprisoned these nine months,

I wake to hard earned fantasy,

more fleeting than those soft dreams

that slip and swirl through coffee steam.

My jailer, cruel Argus, demands,

“It’s time, are you ready?”

“Giotto,” I yawn and roll against the wall.

He claps my back and disappears:

I am such a willing prisoner.

Light pushes through windows and blinds

beaded with nicotine like mist on a jaguar

that crawls across the carpet so slowly.

With bleared eyes, I wake the jailer

and beg an hour in the yard

where lizards skitter with scaled eyes

to deny my fears, as I am just out of bed;

I walk too fast, and it’s all for show,

stop to watch a black winged butterfly

hop across a patch of sky.

Back to a hot bath and my image in the mirror:

memory, fantasy, and impetus for sleep.

“Are you ready?”

“Kokoschka.”
“Good night.”

SK/1978