Tuesday, March 3rd. France is quarantined.
I still haven't read Xavier De Maistre's
Voyage Around My Room. Noah has the
lesson for his English in the din-
 
ing room (the i-e words, like like); as Clemence
telecommutes from the sofa, Amael iPads.
And me – while waiting for my classes, I had
The vim to voice my verses with a vengeance,
 
Lol. No one knows what's up with London
 (it's all business as usual – per Christine
Chia: "UK govt plays dice with people's lives")
 
when other countries hide in quarantine.
But from 1st grade, we know that the word "dice"
composes with "hide" but a single lesson.
Tuesday I found the cat in my throat. An invite
To these muscle-aches, this coughing, these migraines.
Then back to normal. My wife worries, I declaim:
"I'm fine!" Thumbs up, it's Thursday in full flight,
 
before revisiting these Friday pains,
searching breathlessness on the Internet.
Sat, half-eaten plate a fading coronet,
I wait for the day of the lord you take in vain.
 
Today is better. "It is probably
that," my sister says. "The short straw!" I cry.
"Why do I care…", you ask, keen reader, "…what that means?"
Fuck off! See, we just pass time, you and me
on either side of this sonnet's quarantine