Number My Weeks

                 Isolation  Week 1

I stroll to the kitchen, count my steps
twelve from my den, twelve back.
My kitchen chairs sit six around
a factual rectangular table.
I take one Oreo out of its practical package.

Praise words which name our reality.

                Isolation  Week  8

I lope, like Don Quixote’s horse,
to the blue bag cookie room.
My pine chairs form a rhombus
around the lozenge shape table.
I pry six Oreos from its sobbing package.

Praise synonyms, details, strange sobbing packages.

           Isolation  Week 25

I shamble to the infested kitchen
full of black and white bees,
(I mean eatable rotund sweets,)
reckon how many packages are left
in the hive, I mean hide-out, I mean kitchen.
Two bags full! I take one of the paquets (packages)
to the den, and eat, (scarf down,) every Oreo
in its stupid package.

Praise dada , imagination takes us beyond knowledge.

                 Isolation  Week  75

I crawl to the cookie grotto, its floor
sticky with ground Oreo crumbs.
The chairs hang like bats from the ceiling.
Paper napkins wave flags of surrender.
Blue birds, Oreos in their beaks, perch
on my airborne table. I can smell sugar,
hear the sweet strains of a violin.
Maybe the world will end in the kitchen
as we eat sweet chocolate bites out of a
mutilated package. Maybe, maybe not.

Praise a lost blue feather, tipsy tables, ambivalence, and all that seems impossible.

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