Shelter In Place

No special news alert today, dear readers. In fact, I can hardly type due to the way my hands are shaking. My chair threatens with every second to electrocute me, and to rid my bones of this time-forgotten flesh. This town has spread the Coronavirus so quickly, and I fear it will come for me next. Should any health problems come to haunt me as they have in the past, I know this spells my doom… All of me desperately wanted to make it back to my time before I passed away. In this situation, how do I cope? I’ve already been hiding inside, but I was finally getting used to small walks and the feeling of fresh freckles on my arms.

Maybe life will fall into place, and some anti-viral will come out, absolving the world of this sin… But I cannot believe that until it is happening around me. Until then, I instead will drift aimlessly within these walls. Perhaps, dear readers, I’ll write you some poetry. That would be a sweet final gift, I think, and if I survive, it will be a sweet reminder.

Poem for Today

fall’s cement clementine

ripe with wet unbaked merlot

ripe for the little hands of summer

bitter, though

winter’s tangent tangerine

cast in place by falling snow

cast by the little hands of summer

rotten, though

spring’s molested mandarin

used and stuffed some place to stow

used by the little hands of summer

cherished, though

summer’s hands are sticky orange

problem-free nails forever glow

lost on the little hands of summer

his friends below