By Patrick La Roque
On day one, it was my birthday.
I ate popcorn at the movies with Jacob
then Szechuan back home,
take-out—but good take-out.
My daughter baked a lovely cake too.
All week I dreamt odd dreams
a dying fish, a sacred mountain
a film actress, from old teenage galaxies;
long gone.
I gave a talk at a camera club;
tried my new hammock;
started a new book;
drank tea.
On Saturday I mowed the lawn
for the first time this year.
On Sunday we had barbecue
for the first time this year.
And our world turned
a fresh, cleansing green
shades of a hushed revolution
in seven days.
