Day 56 in quarantine, no touch or hugs
or handshakes with the friends who
bring me produce and take away trash.
Brief conversations through the screening
on the porch as they stand at their car.
Is ten feet sufficient distance in a breeze?
We’re all in this together separately,
reading, relying on the internet for news
and entertainment, facsimile of connection.
Some of us are more alone. No humans
to share a household, no one to share
a movie, meal, or music. Can I make
an apple crisp for one? Or two servings
I’ll eat two days in a row—organic apples
with cinnamon and sugar and a crunchy
topping to satisfy a longing for a pretzel
or Fritos corn chips. A part of me steps up
to make masks and sympathy cards
while another folds her arms and shouts
her objections. Shouldn’t you be writing?
Reading? You swore you would practice
drawing. We’re differently the same, alone
together, wondering when this will end. How
many dead? Days slip by for all of us who wait
for a return to a life that will feel nearly like
the one we’ve lost. Will it be better? I want
to be more conscious of sounds and scents.