Doubtful

 
How to survive a global pandemic
without sweet red oblivion in my veins? 
The sameness of days, 
of work from home – 
once a blessed perk, 
now a bloody curse – 
four tiny walls pinching my psyche 
as teenage elephants galumph over concentration 
descending like locusts upon the kitchen 
leaving naught but crumbs and sass… 

There’s no separation from day to eve 
no “5 o’clock somewhere” 
no friends to see 
just the NaPalm of daily poetry 
exploding in my brain 
a silent commotion 
of wordless emotion… 

The muse begs for a drop 
to loosen the tongue… 
Will I survive in this dry land? 
It’s doubtful…