ritual

when i wake up this early morning
she was not already beside me.

i do not want to rise and fold the blanket
and go somewhere else.

or read the papers, or sip coffee, there is
this laziness that infects my bones, a disease

of meaning, another slow day, the routine is
eating me, and i behave

in a manner that i am like a lame duck being
aimed at by all the bystanders

i am opening my eyes, and the ceiling is off
white, it has been that way ever since i got married,

why did i leave it that way? i have the money to have
it painted pure white, like a very clean slate where

i can write what i must mean, but i didn't, i let things
that way they are from the beginning, and perhaps

they will still be at the end. This is what i do next,
always always i do this: i rise from my bed, go to my

circular mirror and look at my face, they also do it,
and then i touch my cheeks and chin,feeling the roughness

of the beard, how they have grown long and so untidy,
the razor is ready, and the soap and water, but this time

i will do what i cannot do the other days of my life,
i will not trim the unruly ones, i will not wash my face,

i may slap myself, and then i give the mirror the grin
of the man that is used to all these doubts and shame.

i will tell it, i am now myself.And then i will the bathroom
another tune for my whistle, nobody, nobody but me.