Cacophony
It's a soundtrack of quarantine:
the slow-burn wails of"When is lunch going to be ready?"
and "I don't want to study today!"the frescoed rhythm of the dishwasher
scratching the three-day mustard stainsand stanch sugar crumbs on plates,
barrettes choking in the vacuum,and the on and off microwave
timer speaking in riddles. Thereis no bloom of summer, no scent
of sky, as I trace the memory ofbeing outside into a circle around
me. There I would sail like freshsheets hung out to dry on the
clotheslines, spread like hardwiredcoral in water, and stride like
Creeping Charlie across Timothygrass. I would hope like a sleeveless
child with an amusement park goodiethat everything would last a little
longer, and not become a backalley where Socrates tells me this
is the present's dialect taking shape.