Prose Poem: Storage.

 

I don't know about you,

but I decided to go into permanent

storage in July.

I mean, once they said

you had to not only wear a mask

but also put on a hair net

and goggles

I knew it was time to step back into

my closet -- where I had spent

many happy hours as a child

pretending to be lost in a 

treasure cave.

It was easier than I thought.

I mean, like, my built in designer

closet was already furnished with

a bathroom, kitchen, and orangery.

So all I did was step inside one balmy

July day, turn the key in the lock,

and settle down to a luxurious and

total isolation.

So far I have managed to knit

a life-size Holstein cow,

train silverfish to yodel,

and taught myself how to spin ripe quince

into flannel.

I understand that ninety percent 

of the world's population

now stays in their closets 

full time.

Good for them.

I personally will not 

be coming out again

until the Great Lakes

is drained to make room

for wind farms.