"I cannot find the remote..."

I cannot find the remote.

A fly is pestering my gaze.

No use in catching it. I'm caught

myself. I'm sheltering in place.

So let its movement be preserved,

its shadow mirrored on the wall.

Besides, my time is better served

by watching it than none at all.

Perhaps the fly is just the thing

to break monotony and distort,

with its translucent airy wings,

the stillness of this nature morte.

Perhaps the tone of time itself

is coded in the monotone

buzz of those wings as they propel

its tiny frame around my home.

Perhaps the housefly can sense

the passing days, as you and I

cannot, as everything's condensed

and brimming for the housefly

whose lifespan is, - as I have read, -

a couple weeks, a month at most,

and as its stopwatch has been set,

it cannot spare a moment lost.

A whole new mantra for mankind -

a new religion solely based

on all the time a man can find

if he eliminates its waste.

Yet, here I am. The couch is cold.

And I can't bring myself to rise

to grab the blanket. Truth be told,

it's not too bad, - this world comprised

of tangibles - of furnishings

that know their owner as he knows

his place among them, of the things

that I have gathered and kept close.

This quarantine, this isolation

has shrunk the landscape and the dust

resulting from this transformation

has caused my eyes to readjust.

My baby boy is in his crib,

my wife and daughter in the room

adjacent. My perspective, stripped

of any white-noise, has assumed

its rightful place, recalibrated.

The fly is circling, aloft.

It's peaceful here. We're isolated.

It's April 10th. I'm signing off.