Sevenscore and ten days
(that would be one-hundred and fifty, Gen-Xers)
sitting behind blackout curtains veiled from the Summer’s sun and paper masked people exhaling too loudly
Counting and recounting the coins in my old fat wine jar
Sanitizing nickels, dimes, quarters, and the pennies too (so many pennies)
Just in case, you know
Eating ramen and miniature weenies floating in fruity beans
Drinking milk three, now four, days beyond the good date
On special nights, an onion sandwich (on a single slice of bread for one must act sparingly, miserly if you prefer, and drink lumpy milk when one is counting copper coins)
Fruity beans, onions, and curdled milk
No one to offend but myself sitting behind blackout curtains
With only the metallic Alexa to listen to my moans
Alexa, should I worry?
Her answer never comes (she is capricious at times) into the dark and lonely room where I sit waiting for the day when they flatten the fattening curve when red numbers turn to black numbers…
A day when I pull away the blackout curtains and open the door
Standing on my porch, inhaling without a mask hiding my smile
A day when I sit beneath the Friday Night Lights listening to helmet on helmet, brass horns and beating drums, cheerleaders cheering meaningless words
A day when Autumn coaxes colorful leaves to fly away to the
hustle and bustle of the holiday season as I stand on overcrowded peopley escalators, up and down, inhaling the aroma of too expensive perfumes and salty pretzels without an expiration date
A day when…
Alexa, should I hope
for the world I remember?
