Waking in the Blue

    The night attendant， a B.U. sophomore¹，

    rouses from the mare's-nest of his drowsy² head

    propped³ on The Meaning of Meaning.

    He catwalks down our corridor.

    Azure⁴ day

    makes my agonized⁵ blue window bleaker⁶.

    Crows maunder on the petrified⁷ fairway.

    Absence！ My hearts grows tense

    as though a harpoon⁸ were sparring for the kill.

    （This is the house for the "mentally ill."）

    What use is my sense of humour？

    I grin at Stanley， now sunk in his sixties，

    once a Harvard all-American fullback，

    （if such were possible！）

    still hoarding⁹ the build of a boy in his twenties，

    as he soaks， a ramrod

    with a muscle of a seal

    in his long tub，

    vaguely¹⁰ urinous from the Victorian plumbing¹¹.

    A kingly granite¹² profile in a crimson¹³ gold-cap，

    worn all day， all night，

    he thinks only of his figure，

    of slimming on sherbert and ginger¹⁴ ale——

    more cut off from words than a seal.

    This is the way day breaks in Bowditch Hall at McLean's；

    the hooded¹⁵ night lights bring out "Bobbie，"

    Porcellian '29，

    a replica¹⁶ of Louis XVI

    without the wig——

    redolent and roly-poly as a sperm¹⁷ whale，

    as he swashbuckles about in his birthday suit

    and horses at chairs.

    These victorious¹⁸ figures of bravado¹⁹ ossified²⁰ young.

    In between the limits of day，

    hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts

    and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle

    of the Roman Catholic attendants.

    （There are no Mayflower

    screwballs in the Catholic Church.）

    After a hearty²¹ New England breakfast，

    I weigh two hundred pounds

    this morning.  Cock of the walk，

    I strut²² in my turtle-necked French sailor's jersey²³

    before the metal shaving mirrors，

    and see the shaky future grow familiar

    in the pinched， indigenous²⁴ faces

    of these thoroughbred mental cases，

    twice my age and half my weight.

    We are all old-timers，

    each of us holds a locked razor.