It’s Getting to Me
I’ve been quarantined too long, and fill time by balancing a water jug on my head while reading “The Sound And The Fury” backwards or imagining what if Hemingway wrote Shakespeare’s plays or the stairs in his house were made of Jell-O - but I need to plug on in the face of solitary confinement, and everybody and everything masked, even the ceramics on the mantel, and Jesus on the cross, and I can’t relax if there’s no one to relax with, or clear my head when the same stuff keeps rushing back, like what hope has the giant human body against an invisible fleet of alien invaders, with more moves than Bruce Lee, and who’d gladly slit my throat if they weren’t too busy laying waste to my lungs – and I don’t want people catching what I’ve got – call it cabin fever, call it the crazies, so please – keep your distance – don’t read this poem.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.
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