Slow Day

Some weeks seem particularly long,

like a dream that you are waiting to end.

I once imagined an amplifier

that I played in a showroom in New York,

and when I finally managed to buy one,

it was much larger than I remembered,

much larger than I imagined.

I remember a refreshing coolness to the air,

the crisp draw of large piles of dry leaves,

the wormy dampness within.

I am already bundling up with a had and gloves.

It might be a long winter.

I really should rearrange my living room,

then my back would not hurt so much.

When I was little, no televisions were this big.

This morning, instead of writing fiction,

I wrote to my doctor.

I am looking forward to the first snow.

I want to travel somewhere and sleep in hotel sheets.

Some weeks are just waiting to end.

Dean at Home: The Pandemic Blog