Existential Crisis in Quarantine
It’s early morning, before the sun licks the window’s ear,
while the dog snores at the foot of the bed, and I’m snapped
awake by a strange and daunting dream that disappears
like a foreign word as soon as I stand up and squint to read
the world’s last clock radio on the bed stand beside my glasses.
In the bathroom, I turn on the light to piss and notice
myself shirtless in the mirror and rub my eyes and ask,
Who the fuck are you? for the fifth time since dinner. last night.
It seems that quarantine breeds with the existential crisis
like teenagers on a basement couch, Netflix streaming.
I stare back at my body, shed of its clothing, flabby and pale
and middle-aged misshapen, molded from years of beers.
But lately I’ve been laying off the alcohol and waking up
before noon and practicing yoga and meditation with my wife
and rereading the classic novels that I skimmed in college
so I can stop spewing borrowed nonsense about Nabokov.
Still, as I stare at my face, my heart pounds and breath quickens
as the birds in the bushes outside start their morning songs.
I want to run from this man who is almost smirking at me
then realize there’s no need to hide when nobody sees you.