Phoesune

          The thrill, the power, the responsibility, the duty, the battle for the lives of our future, this is what gets me up every morning. The blaring alarm and the glaring darkness of the early hour pummel me back to a few more minutes of rest. Satisfied that time will not cease its endless march at my request; I twist, pulling my legs from their warm shelter into the glass shattering chill of the pre dawn morning. I wrap my comforter around my shoulders as though the blanket were some young steamy mistress whose embrace could not be resisted. The Mab Queen calls me back to the bosom of her sleep, yet Oberon summons me to my post.

          I discard the comforter in a flurry of persistence and ascend to my feet to begin my quick dance to the bathroom.  As the water begins rushing through the pipes my eyes begin to dance as though they were caged birds that had heard the purr of a cat nearby. The rumbling roar of the hot steamy water from the showerhead declares itself with a shrill, drawing me under its liquid fire to burn the shiver of the night from my bones. The last remaining traces of the half dreams that had followed me from my bed melt away even as the prowling tasks of the day come marching like well trained soldiers to force my attention onto them.

          I think of the growling fire breathing metallic beasts that I will confront and subdue today. The Vipers, the Rams, a Firebird or two, all to be calmed by a single upraised hand. Their rumbles of protest turned to the soft purring of contained impatience. The small weak ducklings under my charge protected only by a bright red wand raised in defiance to the whole world’s eagerness for motion. As I rub the soap together with my palms I will this great power to lend itself to the rest of my body. Rinsing the cleansing solution from my frame, I take one last moment in my cathedral of mist to say goodbye to my inertia before twisting the valve and reaching for the soft Egyptian cloth that will start my new day.

          Stepping from the shower I stand before the veiled mirror while I massage the remaining moisture from my body. Taking the towel, I clear a small space to peer through the foggy drapes that hides the world of echoes. Eyes meet my reflected self and I study the virtues that give me strength. The set of my jaw though scraggled by an overnight growth of resilient hair, is valiant. My hair tussled by its bout with the towel is yet still pliable to my comb; the instrument of my hand brings its wild musings into a symmetric obedience. I replace the comb with a toothbrush and wielding it, I remove the plaque plague from beneath the lips. Deciding to reserve my strength for the greater tasks I skip the ritual of scrapping the young bristling whiskers from my face and return to the shadowy room of my former repose.

          Selecting the garments for my battle was a simple choice; white undergarments to signify my purity, blue denim so others will recognize my royal lineage, a red shirt to display the whole hearted devotion to my charges and a yellow vest as a warning to all the couriers that I am a man that must be heeded at the reckoning. Fully clothed in my righteousness, I pull back the shades and see the first hint of the sun trying to wake up for its day. I raise my hand and allow it entrance through the horizon.

          Overlooking my realms below I see the many false attempts by the rebellious machines to overthrow my empire. The traffic lights that in their mechanizations and precise timing attempt to replicate my glory. They glow and blink their prayers hoping to halt the progress of the wild concrete crawling creatures. Most obey, but a few spurned by the amber glow of receding green explode through under the red protesting blaze. These imitators are no match for me and they can only pretend for me until I arrive. Their cousins holding back the tide of pedestrian trespassers give mute instructions to “walk” or “don’t walk”, but they have no eyes like mine that can see the beasts and no hand like mine to calm the rage within their steel hearts. No these automatons are nothing compared to my glory. Reassured, I turn my back to them and exit my domicile to take my place below awaiting the first young champion of education to seek my aide. As I wait, I stand holding my octagonal scepter, like an early morning specter, eyeing the wandering herd of wheels as they coast, creep, and crawl by. Occasionally I wave my hand to some young tigress astride her rolling raptor as if to say that this once, this time, I can be merciful.