28.02.2026

Then at some point 

Between the alerts, you'll 

Make yourself a mug of tea 

          (something to remind 

            what "normal" felt  

            like)

You'll sit in your kitchen 

At the open window, 

Wrapped in a long, black, 

Thrift store wool coat 

          (that once held a man, 

            at least twice your 

            size,)

And note the indifferent late afternoon sky 

All daubbed with pretty puffs of pink

          (so thick, you think   

          "they look like cotton 

            candy",)

And dunk a biscuit in your tea

Hold it there for

Five "Mississippis"

        (the perfect length, for     

          just slightly soggy,)

Then take a bite 

          (with tongue– not 

           teeth, pressed

           hard against the

           roof of your mouth)

And thus you spend your in-between times

Waiting for your tea to cool

Waiting for the sun to sink 

Waiting for the sabbath to end

And the next red alert that you know will come

          (you can practically feel    

           a new rhythm forming)

And already, your body knows this notation 

Already, she's relearned 

All her old steps

          (almost independently, 

           like you 

           weren't even

           necessary,)

And before you know it, this will feel normal

You'll float from couch, to kitchen, to shelter

To bathroom, to bed,

And shelter again

All on cue, an automaton

And to anyone watching, this 

Strange performance 

It might even look like you're

Actually alive.