Talking through a cloth mask is like
Making out with a bed sheet.
And it’s hard to trust eyes alone
Without a smile to go with them,
Or a frown,
Or a smooth line of indifference.
Still, I wear one
Because I want to keep others safe from me.
The only deadlines we have now are pickup times:
The CSA on Tuesday,
The Farmers Market on Wednesday,
Kroger this Thursday.
I ordered five cases of LaCroix
Because I’ve been out for over a month.
We pick up the meat next week–
I can’t remember exactly when.
Friends have begun asking if I’m willing to meet.
Not me. Not yet.
I’m considering a June opening.
Although you can see me on Zoom
For workouts and game nights
And family get togethers and meet ups
And political debates and staff meetings.
I’m usually at least one minute late to these.
–cue corny joke about the traffic from my bedroom to the living room–
–there’s always a pile up in the hallway–
It’s possible I will fall into the abyss
My body’s hollowing out of the Ikea couch in the living room.
I sit outside on the deck chairs when I can
Or on a rolled up yoga mat on the hardwood floor
Using the coffee table as a desk.
But the abyss always draws me back.
The other morning David and I
Switched who showered first,
And we spent the whole time making breakfast
Running into each other in our small kitchen.
There’s value to routine.