Anybody fancy a Covid 19 poem?

                                                     Entering the age of the unfamiliar

A dog stood on its hind legs and talked to him.

The flowers had the faces of old men. The paths

he took returned him to the places he’d just been to

the places he’d just been, and when he wrote

he found he’d written backwards or the pen

had eaten up the words already there and left him

silent. The great words that he felt had dwelt within him

came out as other words – mean spirited and small.

The friend he turned to turned into a bolster;

the others turned against him. His home

was not his own; his keys were in the fridge

and suddenly the kitchen had no door.

He knew they weren’t in Kansas anymore.

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