When the work
is done,
I retire to the garage
to smoke my cannabis,
watch a sitcom rerun
and unwind
as I always do.
I walk to
the front of the house
to check
my daughter's car
to see
if it is locked,
as I always do.
I walk around
the black
2012 Honda Civic
and check the doors
and the windows
as I always do.
Noting this ritual,
as I have done over
100 quarantine days
in a row, I numbly think:
"There is
absolutely nothing special
about this day."
At that moment,
I became conscious
of the purple in the dusk,
the melody in the breeze,
the hopeful laughter of
the children playing
up the street,
the scent of her hair
lingering from an
earlier embrace
and the warmth knowing
all was safe,
calm and bright
for the moment,
and the truth
whispered in my ear:
"Every single thing
about this day
is special."