Safer at Home

No one needs my help or time or conversation, so
I fall upon the bed, a scarf that's carelessly thrown
down and stays in place. I close my eyes and listen.
Two clocks are by the bed, both out of reach because
I only use my phone alarm to wake me up, and never
now. One clock sits silent on the desk, intimidated by
the wall clock overhead that loudly ticks the time.
The kitchen hums as dishes wash themselves,
Bradbury-esque. Two rooms away some people talk
on television. A brush is dropped. It's hot enough that
suddenly a blast of cool conditioned air blows
loudly, not quite reaching to the bed. The clang of something
in a drawer. The television stops. The front door opens, shuts.
I focus on my breath and stretch. I wonder if my ankle
bones would crack if forced to turn my foot in circles (yes).
A little sound is new inside my nose as sinuses unseen redecorate
their little rooms. Perhaps that's next. I've cleaned
out closets, pantries, written, drawn. I've talked to friends
too far away. I've cooked more awesome meals within
the week than in the last few months, watched more TV
and washed my hands and exercised. My stomach
gurgles, asking for a snack (denied, this time). Outside,
a saw is whining and I try to match the tone without success.
The front door, followed by the television. I plan to beat
the COVID beat, survive -- I'm not as sure about that clock.
How many do we need in one room anyway? My phone
announces that I've got a message. Almost everything I hear
depends on power, on a cellphone tower, nothing much organic.
Birds were singing in the morning when the windows were still open
to the coolness. I'd like to fly away myself, social distance from the sky
where I could only hear the wind, earth's breath upon
my face as she waves her mighty arms and balances all life below.


(C) 2019, Ellen Gillette