Break of Dawn, Room 28
Bob Rashkow
The light descends
He sits on a marble monument
He takes up an Auguste Rodin pose
He is watching me closely
My figure slides aloft, almost floats
between consciousness
and oblivion
He looks toward the cold table
He lights a forbidden cigarette
He is trying to understand
He does not and will not understand.
The delicate mechanisms.
I’m dancing with the Devil.
Gypsy rags, champagne toast,
The Latin Quarter, perhaps, Istanbul
Unable to see, hear him, feel him
He stomps out his smoke
with a gentle flourish
He watches
He frowns
He buries his head in the welcoming sand.
The harsh, curving light freezes upon the table,
My body stiffens and salutes.
The long pilgrimage to the Anywhere.
He bows his head,
tosses a lilac into the light.
