I’m standing in the kitchen, drunk,
eating packs of banana bread bear paws.

You enter, stage left, disgusted.
“What the fuck are you doing?” your face-mouth is saying.

“Whassa matter?” I say, spitting brown crumbs,
“Are we saving these for the KID’S SCHOOL LUNCHES!?”

“Get a hold of yourself,” you’re saying.

God you’re beautiful when you’re mad at me about eating bear paws.

Later, in the upstairs place of the house,
I lay exactly face-down on the floor beside the bed.

I want to know what it feels like to BE a bed.

I can hear your impatient sigh from above.
“You know, just because there’s a pandemic going on,
doesn’t give you free reign to act like a complete tard.”

“Hey man, you can’t say tard,” I say, my voice muffled.

You don’t reply, and we lay like that, in the quiet room.

The window is open slightly,
letting the evening’s birdsong fill the space where the talking use to.

These are the golden days.

Self-Isolation – Day 36: In which the entire country learns the joys of driveway drinking.

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