May 1, 2014

The Night Robber

          Brushing my teeth naked, in the mirror I see the bruises on my arms. I read them like news, placing my fingers quizzically on the blue-brown spots. I'm Jeremy Brett playing HolmesWhat happened here?
          My back hurts, but it cannot tell me why.
          I haven't had an honest eight o'clock since my thirties. Oh, there were the handful of tense nights when I held out—cheerfully manic, determined, then, finally, just jittery and sad. 
          Gone are the nights of painting, or Schumann, or a 10-gallon Dostoevsky. 
          The audio of my nights is lost, too, like a microphone placed too far from the action—the gunshots in Dealey Plaza. Something was said: expostulation, and reply. Shots rang outwere there three, or four?—and I went to bed. Do I remember, or did I just dream?
          In the morning, an umpire raises his fist, but he hasn't enough fingers. I make coffee and await my fate.