Time has been passed through the sieve,
Distance like the fucked custard you just can’t get through.
The dates have rolled up behind you,
but the page on your calendar is only dog earred, not flicked.
Around the block, two kilometres, not bad.
Around the house for a lifetime,
keeping tabs on expiry dates for once.
We sarcastically applaud our neighbors and scoff at the death toll,
with comparisons to everyday pox.
Our hair grows, our starters bloom.
Important to embrace the social call,
But it strains the little comforts,
and gives way to our livelihood.
Taking a knee through the umbra,
hoping that when we arise,
the sun will shine on us all, equally.