another mourning

I wake up this morning happy for the first
time in weeks. The sun sleepily eased
through the blinds, throwing
lines like notebook paper across
my bed. The dogs shift to the movement
of dreams. I fasten
a robe around my body, flex
my hands and toes.
I could leave here, I
could just go.

.home.thawing.

Mark O. sits at his desk, bowls formerly containing food sprawled out in front of him.
He is waiting for the mail to arrive. His W-2 form should be here today.
He has lived here his entire life.

Mark O. looks out his window as if it were a painting.

There was a time, steeped in escapism. He read Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, and was envious of his namesake, travelling through Venice after Venice, and recounting everything to Kublai Khan.
He had even bought travel brochures.

Mark O. doesn't leave his house very often, much less his city.

The mail arrives.
Somewhere, he can hear birds telling each other stories of where they've been.

He slides into his jacket. He walks to the door. The weatherman said it was exceptionally warm today. Possibility of more snow next week, though.
Maybe his kids will walk home after school. The sidewalk snow seems to have melted.

Mark O. opens his front door and can see, for the first time, the street that he lives on.