Today I’ll fold my work clothes neat
in the cabinet farthest from the bedroom door,
hide my leather shoes, canvas sneakers
at the bottom shelf of the shoe rack;
roll my neckties, hang my sweaters,
turn most pairs of my socks to balls;
arrange my pens and sticky notes in a pack;
confine in a box my 3-year old knapsack.
I’ll ration the canned goods and some leftovers
for two weeks. It will be hard to go out.
I’ll befriend the citronella, converse with the snake plant -
an odd pair perched on my balcony’s gravel stone ledge.
I will get more used to the stench of the backyard canal,
neighbors nervously pacing our building’s narrow corridors,
blares of sirens rushing to a nearby hospital,
my Aegean cat rubbing her nose on the floor.
Things I’m assured will be within 35 square meters;
the size of my world, the new normal.
The steps I’ll measure will be the length
of how my dreams stroll further in my mind.
Nights will be darker, humid and restless;
days will be quiet, replete of the scurries and hustle.
Working hours will be spent in front of two monitors
placed near a window for a view of the sky.
And on weekends, pastimes on paintings and prayers
that the world won’t descend towards chaos and hell,
then binge watch frequently Aamir Khan’s 3 Idiots
to keep telling myself all is well, all is well.
