Once the Quarantines are Lifted

She had ceased to care for me before
The virus came around, and, afterward,
She neither called nor texted. I'd
Prepared for that. I've moldered
In this makeshift prison, mocked
By paintings I can't finish, out of touch
With everything and -one. I scuttle
Out sometimes to groceries and liquor
Stores, another faceless organism, ripe
For being caught and killed. I dream
Of finding somewhere on a map no one
Has seen before, and packing lightly,
Running off, but is it fair to say I'm
Running when the woman I am leaving
Doesn't know and, doubtless,
Wouldn't care?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 73 times
Written on 2020-09-16 at 18:29

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