This plaguey plague
Will go away.
They say.
But will it?
Or should it?

It crept upon us
By dead of night
Gave us a fright
And scared us silly
And willy-nilly
And muddle we might
We try to fight back
By doing nothing
But sit indoors
And watch the telly
Tell us stories
Of disease and death
And shortness of breath
Till breath is gone
For more and more
In countries galore
And near at home.
But no, don’t moan
And suck up the fright
And bite the bullet
And hope against hope
We’ve learnt to cope
With plaguey plagues
Bubonic and other
Black Death and pneumonic.
Can’t run home to mother
For a hug
Cos she’s in isolation too
And far from you.
So moan alone
And eat your porridge
And hope
It’s only been touched
By disinfected robots.

Roger is a page and performance poet with three collections published and one due soon, appearances at venues and in festivals and experiments with dramatised poetry and with music.

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