Empty streets streak toward the horizon where the sun hovers like any ordinary star, patiently waiting us out. I tilted at windmills all day long: the giants were named Getting Up, Fixing Meals, Yelling and Staring, Sitting and Fidgeting. Work is a memory, a stopgap, an unsuccessful sneeze. Came home with Chipotle and my kid threw a fit because I wouldn’t let her handle the container the food comes in like usual because there is no more usual. “It is a good thing war is so terrible,” a general supposedly said, “or else we should grow too fond of it.”