House Arrest 32 (Pushkin Sonnet)

House Arrest

I used to change my voicemail every day,
recording first the date and day of week,
informing callers I was not away
but mostly locating, by this technique,
myself in place and time, and planning, too,
the items on my list I meant to do
(committing to the tasks already honed
that couldn’t be realistically postponed).

That habit disappeared when I retired,
with calendar mistakes the consequence.
It wasn’t memory or lack of sense
that made me think a Thursday had transpired
on Saturday. And now, with House Arrest,
my space is here, but time is often guessed.

This entry was posted in Cognition, Coronaverse, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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