by Richard Baldasty

My mornings are all comfortingly the same. I eat grapefruit, drink two cups of coffee, a demi-bouteille of Chardonnay, go through my tai chi sequence, then settle in for additions to my manuscript. The master list of things one must never do.

Do not grow potatoes on the roof.

Do not attempt to hypnotize polecats.

Do not boast, gloat, vaunt, fluff your feathers, Tarzan yell, or pirouette in triumphal ecstasy.

I skip lunch. Take an early afternoon nap. When I awake, busy hours before me. Plenty of time to bury creepy Tio Vico up to his neck in sand. Plenty of time to video his snarls, photo his grimaces, post them on his Instagram.

Evenings: open for serendipity. Dinner out? An arty film noir or filthy Flemish comedy? Maybe a knife fight in some newly fashionable parking lot.

Don’t wear a colander on your head.

Do not stomp on baby spiders.

Neither let the brilliance of the moon disturb your slumber nor bother to count its scars.

Tomorrow brings another morn; the precious work goes on.

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Richard Baldasty observes lockdown restrictions dutifully but sorely misses family. Masked on Twitter @2kurtryder. Respectfully gloved in spring issues of Unbroken Journal, Club Plum, and Eastern Iowa Review.