Sunrise Is At Seven ! Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

As he rolls out of bed,
cotton sheets tangled
the usual sense of urgency
like unwanted regurgitation
awaits him with judgmental eyes.

Shower too hot, dammit,
plumber says it's the Legionnaire's,
public health measure,
water needs to be hotter than hot,
and he wonders about the past,
when his mother would watch
over him and all his needs
in return for something undefined,
there was no Dove soap then,
threequarter cleansing cream,
and he could sleep in if needed,
there would still be bread and butter
and fatback on the kitchen table,
not so today, when the bosses,
and, seemingly, everyone else
were stressed, grumpy and powerful,
two strikes and you got the thumbs down.

He was wearing a full Castro beard,
for the simple reason of economics,
shaving was such a time-consuming bore,
still drunk with Sandman's elixir
he arrives on the barstool, facing scrambled,
ginger toast and a fistful of vitamins.

Is she winking at me? What the....
well, I'll be! I must have forgotten,
others might, but I get up at seven
what possessed me on this day?
Early presenile dementia, I say,
mind's in gear, how could this happen,
well, never mind, and here she winks,
again, they say that her age is something,
a re-awakening of dormant desires,
a second coming, grinning at the thought,
and, like a lamb led to slaughter,
he feels the updraft under wings
that lift alerted spirits high.

He finds the cold side of his pillow
and welcomes eager, knowing fingers,
as they get cracking with the warming rays
of morning sun's astonished mood,
they have another hour now, be still.