Le Poème d’Espère

Get up, get up I am told. If I don’t get up, late for work I shall be, A cat-like Yawn escapes my mouth as I lazily prowl to the bathroom. I reach across the cold marble, stretching for my glasses. My hand passes a cursory annotation, reading Meeting—8:30. I groan as the clock smirks, sly expression reading seven forty-five. Now bespectacled, I roam back to the master’s chambers. As I suit cashmere pants and suede sport jacket on to me, I glance into the mirror. A gasp— as well as my breath—escape my lips. There, in the speculum, Father gazes back at me. He makes no move, but his expressionless face shows he wants to say something, but the time and place are inappropriate. Pupils dilated, I blink. But when the eyelids reopen, Father is not there. In a square of silver, the man in the suede jacket and merino pants wears a slight smile across his visage.