I am the last woman on earth

I am the last woman on earth.

I live alone in my house and every day I follow the schedule that I have arranged for myself.

That’s my game. It’s the best way to get through this.

Yoga, coffee, meditation, breakfast, look out the window, do the laundry, make the bed, take a shower, take a walk, lie  on the floor and wait for the dogs to jump on me, eat stuff from the fridge

after gazing into it awhile. Brush my hair.

Add blush. Add mascara despite considering how long it will take to remove. No lipstick.

Yesterday I considered a small  glass of red wine with breakfast.

My neighbor’s new dog barks

enough to make napping problematic.

I drink a lot of tea with half and half

and maple syrup which is tastier than

sugar.

My garage is a café after 6

and dinner is in white cardboard squares

ready for all of us dreamers who believe

next month will bring hope back and

neighbors come two by two

like passengers on Noah’s Ark

run aground and have a hard time

leaving.

So how do I feel?

I’m glad for the distraction and for the wine and for the anesthesia. I don’t tell anybody about the hopelessness.

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