Now that my home has been fortified it no longer makes sense to say: from the comfort of my home. As if soldiers at For Knox could ever relax during a war. Comfort is the weakness that began all this when unseen enemies cropped the lungs of a nation staggering forward to grab an extra bite of comfort food, and comfort is all we can offer each other since we are just ammunition for the enemy. How do you protect your fort from yourself? We are guys drinking Southern Comfort on a Tuesday afternoon. We are Fords frozen in driveways, as four fourteen year olds boy bike without masks on, thinking they can afford what has been lost. How fortunate for me the four walls I talk to seem like home. How fortunate for me in the lines of a poem I am never alone.