THESE ARE THE DAYS

 

Rooms get smaller.

We close doors tighter,
words come like judgements,

what’s left to share when you’ve shared
everything.

Rooms feel smaller.

like big plants in small pots,
like small meals on big plates
I want to break.

I want to watch Netflix
in Pj’s, all day, every day
but I won’t look lazy in company-
even her company.

So I write poems and books- nothing new
and chop down trees and reclaim the garden she’s covered
in weeds to brush things under like the rugs indoors-
the cover-ups we cough over.

In the evenings I write again and cook
and later we clean and you say you’d cook
but I can’t digest any more potatoes
or drink vegetables that have been boiled
to bland

in small pots
and we are just two big vegetables

resisting the urge to shout
in rooms too small to whisper.

I love you I say, and she does too
and we know it- but every day, every minute, every second
in these small rooms?

4 thoughts on “THESE ARE THE DAYS

  1. Mike Powell

    I enjoyed your reflections, Damien, on the ups and downs of confinement with another, the uneasy routines and the routine monotony. It is a bit different to be doing it on my own, with nobody to judge, but also nobody to care for, to cook for, or with whom to share. The uncertain length of our “sentence” makes the confinement even harder, I think–I identify with your analogy of big plants in small pots. Take care, my friend, and find joy where you can.

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