NaPoWriMo,*Day twenty-seven:

Today’s prompt: “write a poem in the form of a review. But not a review of a book or a movie of a restaurant. Instead, I challenge you to write a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. For example, your mother-in-law, the moon, or the year 2020 (I think many of us have some thoughts on that one!)”

Herewith,

Chez Maggie

“Do you have reservations, Madam?”
Oh, I have so, so many.
And calling me “madam” didn’t help one bit.
“Yes. Maggie… Quarantine for one.”
“Ah, of course! Right this way.”

Doesn’t look too bad on the outside.
Basic ranch style, minimal landscaping.
Is that the gardener digging in the flower bed?
Wearing a tuxedo?
Oh, I guess not. It’s the resident cat.

Inside, the vibe is very industrial.
Squirrel cage light fixtures;
original 1950s oak floors throughout,
pocked by staple marks, blackened with water stains.
Perhaps a tad too industrial:
an orange extension cord snakes down the hallway;
a Stanley toolbox claims half the floor space in the bathroom.

Sleeping accommodations are comfy.
pink sheets in a lilac room.
I question how long it’s been since the bedding was changed.
The gardener has come inside, and is now
curled up on a sunny patch of living room carpet.

The bathroom is small and appears to be under renovation.
It’s cute, though, despite the measuring tape left on the vanity top
and the caulk gun tucked hazardously beneath the rug.
As to cleanliness… well, let’s just say the industrial style
needs to include some industrial cleaning soon.

On to the kitchen. Oh, my.
I think I will be ordering delivery for the duration of my stay.
That’s okay. I can’t cook anyway.
It’s almost as if the keepers of this establishment knew that already.

A sliding glass door leads to an enclosed back yard, which –
curiously – continues the industrial theme.
A pair of saw horses stand at the ready.
A second pair have collapsed and lay in a heap where they fell.
Old splintered baseboards poke out from a stack of two by sixes
that had a former life as part of the now diminished deck.

On the lawn, a white dog has passed out in the shade.
Or so it appears; I can tell he is watching me through half-veiled eyes.
He must be the other tenant I was warned about,
but I was told he is an excellent self-distancer.

So this is where I’ll be spending the sum of my
indeterminate quarantine.
No five-star rating here, but the accommodations will suffice.
The tuxedo cat makes a sweet gardener.
The lawn ornament dog will keep me occupied;
he seems to have an acute sense of meal times.

I give this place a three “S” rating:
Stay home;
Stay safe;
Stay alive.

National Poetry Writing Month, Day 27