Lonely commutes down empty streets,
cloth masks and coffee breath,
offices bigger than mine vacant for months,
recycled air swirling in the empty space
around dying potted plants,
every door locked behind a keypad,
with a code I never get right the first time.
I wait while others celebrate the jab,
sitting outside a bar counting capacity,
thirsty for a beer under neon glow,
wanting people around while
wanting to be left alone;
I just know I liked when
touch was an option,
to exist knowing life is near
like a dying potted plant.
Eyes over masks watching,
lips like horses at the gate pursing,
ready to condemn,
seek and scold;
Is this six feet?
I’m bad with distance;
following marks on the floor
like an actor onstage
in a tragedy of the commons.
If the eyes are squinting,
they are either laughing or crying,
neither appropriate in the checkout lane,
with wafting aerosols;
I’m sorry, do I know you?
You look familiar but we’ve all gained weight.
Every move beyond the doorstep scripted,
sterile, repetitive,
repetitive,
measuring risk,
debating mitigation,
ethical considerations,
counting odds like a bookie;
I don’t want to die
but I don’t want to live like this;
I’m taking a personal day Friday.
©2021, Dan Schell, Flex Your Head Books