bruorton

I awake hot, sweaty, mouth parched.

Sitting up carefully, I let my head swim

to shore. Is this fever? Is that nausea

I feel? It has been some while since I

last fell afoul of it. But this year,

this year.

I make my way to the bathroom,

mind in what passes for racing

in its thickened state. Is this it?

The one I've been isolated for

9 months to avoid, only to find

it incubated at last? I review who

I have interacted with, brought

cookies to, over the last few days,

who I have exposed. I consider

how it will feel to have accomplished

no more than I have up to now.

Disappointing, I decide, but beside

the point. I have loved the world

imperfectly, and been loved in return.

If this is to be it, it is enough.

I take my handful of nighttime pills,

and return to bed, thinking of St. Francis

asked in the garden what he'd do, if the end
of the world was coming at sundown:

"I would finish weeding my row."

I drift off, and wake again in the dark

a few hours later, still too hot, but

this time less disoriented. I rise again

and check: yes, we forgot to turn

the thermostat down before bed.

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