Manic in Quarantine: Breaking the monotony of repetition
Updated: Jan 21
My legs are still warm
And part of me wants to stretch
But part of me –
I guess the greater part of me
Wants to write
So that is what I am doing.
I saw many new things today,
Today, a day that had been like any other day,
Any other day that I – and probably we –
Have grown used to during this quarantine.
I set out to run,
On a nice, warm, shiny Thursday,
Mid-afternoon, the birds of Danbury
Chirping away, the cool breeze
Rustling through the forest
Which engulfs this hometown.
I went my normal route,
A right on Middle River
(I would love to know which cardinal
Direction that is, especially as someone who normally
Prides himself on a sense of spatial awareness).
I think it is west.
My stride felt normal, nothing special.
I had nothing in particular on my mind
Other than that it was a nice day.
Within my first steps, I looked left
And saw a house I don’t think
Id ever seen before.
I did a double take,
The second of which,
Was in fact the first time
I really saw it.
A red home with a beautiful mahogany garage.
I continued, along Middle River,
Finding somewhat of a groove.
A man outside, in his driveway
I wonder: when was the last time he did that?
I continued, finding a nice pace
Before working my way up the
Clockwise spiral bend
And looked again to my left:
A simple home,
Flanked by logs of wood, maybe
Stored away for a winter
Which never really happened.
The immediate next home,
You guessed it,
On my left.
Brown, slightly elevated above street level.
I would like to live there.
A part of me – maybe that same part of me
Writing right now
Would live in all of these homes.
I bent my sight around
The back of the home.
A downward sloping
Yard, a firepit.
A right on Birch Street.
Would this continue? I’m not one
For architecture, nor
Am I one to survey homes,
Imagining which ones I would and would not
Live in (I guess I just did this)
Having run this route hundreds of times—
This same one—
I had never seen these homes, really seen them.
A finely-veiled red cabin,
A bridge in the backyard, over a stream,
But leading to where?
I made my way back.
Would I see others, from this
A few, I must say,
And an elderly woman
In her bright pink raincoat -- Either she, or I, hadn’t read the forecast –
Gently contrasting her modest, sky-blue home.
A honk or two at me,
A few raking their leaves,
And a few seemed to have hired others to do
That for them.
I returned home,
A left this time.
And in the theme of
The run, I tried to find something
New about my own home.
Why was our chimney so centered
Above the front door?