Peter Gets Cabin Fever Day 2 And Leaves The House
while I am still waking up. I pad after him in my robe
with hand sanitizer and a miniature disinfectant spray
I accidentally took on the plane last week, said, What’s the worst that can happen,
and never even used it in Texas. Take this meatloaf sandwich.
Take this cheap Heaven Hill whiskey. There are two purple crocuses
among the grass down the street, I saw them just the other day and
crouched, embarrassed and wishing I wasn’t, to see their thin saffron
stamens. Lilac striped cups like last year in St. George, my Kansas.
Abby is making wine in South Africa. My family is arriving home
from North Platte. Kyle is knocking down the kitchen wall for
his new baby, Alma. And we built Titus a bookshelf when he moved
to Kentucky – one from Ikea, we spread a rug on the floor and
snapped dozens of nubs into place, never quite sure
if they would hold. Peter is in a tower you can see from
anywhere in town. I am waiting to learn the name of the man
in Invisible Man, I am waiting on the market to tell me where
to move. Halfway through now, where is it? Where,
the collected? The quilt on the end of the bed? This guinea fowl
nest at the edge of the woods. I discovered the crocus,
the loaf pan, each building, my own to leave and to reveal.