Humorously, following every “C” or “c” I see, I have become conditioned
to anticipate a dainty “-VID-19” or “-oronavirus”
instead of “-ome in for pick-up,” “-afe for customers,”
“-offee,” “-ontainer;” “-ombine,” “-onfine.”
Online is fine. Extant extinction in the dignified age.
(Dinosaurs hoping to be saved, staying online, filthy with disregard to time.)
Yet poetry leaks from the driest of walls
when from beneath conceived-translucent eyelids peer tears and passion.
The horse I will someday ride gallops patiently beneath a waning crescent
Hope seeps into the water I am lucky to run, (though lacking physical exercise).
I am over-fueled by plentiful meals to carry on chasing my many ambitions from a residence.
(Home is where identity has likely been uprooted from.)
Excitement jolts through the electric
current that we with access to technology are riding,
outlets pronounce troubling words: aren’t walls
what humans need most of all?
Remember how disturbing settling can be.
True connection, true livelihood, require extension of
one feeling self to another.