I have become accustomed to the aloneness,
suddenly having permission to let my mind wander,
to sleep a bit later, to have coffee with the woman I love
and not have to flee to satisfy a clock somewhere.
Time to think. Time to play with possibilities.
to be a child again and take naps,
to finger paint if I so desire, or make bad art
in search of something new.
There are books to read. Conversations to be had.
Cats who finally get the attention they want.
Dreams to dream, to rethink, to move from dream
In our house, we laugh a lot. More than most of the world.
Silly as a six-year-olds, our minds have become quick
and more than a little absurd.
Did I mention naps?
I think I am slowly becoming a child again,
easy with myself, better able to find joy in the small things,
aware the world outside my windows is a strange
and dark place, wild and uncontrollable,
but more confident that my father, the eternal one,
will see me through, content to let the experts
and spirits work while I linger with the ones I love
and make pizza.
About this poem
My wife, daughter and I are self quarantined on general principle, like most of the country right now. In one way it is driving us crazy, particularly my wonderfully extroverted wife who I adore. But it other ways it has been fun, and full of possibility.
Someday, when all this is over, someone should create an anthology of plague year creativity. My suspicion is that it will contain far more humor than Camus’ “The Plague” or Defoe’s “A Journal of the Plague Year.”
Our society is weird that way.