Staying Inside

Staying inside isn’t so novel,

I’ve been doing it for a long time

in my respectable hovel.

The same walls in my iris

when there was no virus.

The same bland and boring environ,

hardly something foreign.

The cracks, the peeling paint,

the dull light ever so quaint.

Nothing new in there.

But me.

Sitting.

Staring.

Watching the news.

Reading that book.

Working.

Doing my part as best I can,

to keep other’s shit from hitting the fan.

I keep to myself while lusty longing hovers

rapt in the memories of lost lovers.

Cruel imagination, keeping me alive.

I twist and turn on my worn-out sofa,

wishing for her sweet ambrosia,

to fill my nose, and to taste on my lips,

while staring down this odd apocalypse.

I am compelled to resist.

I sit.

Staring.

Reading.

Worrying about the news.

Working.

Sleeping.

Not much left to do but hope,

buy more quantities of hand soap.

I’ll pine for her body, mind and soul,

but I’ll stay put for a higher goal.

When we’re free to roam again.