The Absolutely Nearly True Account of My Week
By David Cortez
these walls my eyes, this screen my face.
I haven't seen the real trees,
nor changed this shirt of wool or fleece.
I haven't left since Monday past,
when I locked my doors and held them fast.
I haven't smelled the crisp spring air,
since I sat my ass on this here chair.
maybe I should see the view,
if not by window, put on my shoes,
and take a stride and wave hello,
as strangers pass while off I go.
I'll check for rain or sleet or snow,
can't roam in humid afterglow,
not wet nor dry, the sun still shines,
oh but won't you check the time.
I'd love to go and see the world,
outside my door where paint has curled,
how 'bout next week if I can luck it,
I'll see, maybe, but really, fuck it.
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