Write Lines (Don’t Do It)

This poem is self-isolating.
It cannot progress, only lie on this sofa, stalled &
pathetically heroic, while somewhere unseen other
Well-appointed lines speed away into verdant fields.

This poem will not come any closer.
It will keep its distance, skimming desolate
Shelves in narrow aisles, hopping off kerbstones
To skitter through dusty gutters, like a nervy robin.

This poem remains asymptomatic
Yet sequestered inside these white walls, cornered
by this red alert as bright & persistent as the
breath-shortening cough that has not appeared.

This poem will only emerge for the essentials;
To celebrate lairy goats storming deserted streets
& giddy lambs colonising playground roundabouts,
fiercely debating whose turn it is to get off & push.

This poem has forgotten how to day-to-day.

This poem is Covidian.