Tom Zimmerman ________________________________________________ Stay at Home “I believe in you my soul,” old Whitman wrote. Your soul’s been quarantined for decades, flitting madly in the attic, drunk on sump-pump swill. You wrote a poem Tuesday with the simile “the soul expands as if put on a ventilator.” Sure. Spring cleaning’s what you need, but winter’s caught you napping: melting snow on tender tips of spruces, bluejay squawking, feeder fallen off the shepherd’s crook. The coffee’s gone, too soon for beer or scotch. In bed, you read a Polish poet whose name you can’t pronounce. Wife’s made you fabric masks—one black, one blue— to wear in public. “Bruised,” she says. “So you.”
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