Cabin Fever

Go.  
Just go.
Go do laundry, shopping,
banking errands.  Pay the bills
and visit the folks.
See if there’s anyone
at the coffee shop, the bar,
the library. Make
some conversation.
At the least, pretend
that movement is valuable
in this case.

Go.
Just go.
Take a job, a volunteer
position, a role 
in a community play.
Play a unicorn, a pirate,
a fur-clad king or queen.
Take on the control and mystery
the house doesn’t afford you.

Go.
Just go.
Get out the door
and unravel your hermitage,
following its threads
to the world 
outside your house. 
Let the slam of the door behind you
be your fanfare.
Let the anthem of reverse wail
as you get out of the driveway.
You’re an American, 
royalty among nomads,
shining as you roll across the world.

Go.
Just go.
Go big, large, gargantuan, grandiose,
universal in your journey.
Make a virtue of pretending to tear
your roots from the ground, 
even if just for a little while —
for the afternoon, the morning, the day —
your car radio on roar, your home behind you
laid open and wasted as Jericho from the sound. 
Take comfort, though — 
magically, it will be reborn when you come home
and rest.  You can tear it down again
the next time you need to go.