Locked down in the Manshed 8. A poem by Eamonn Fitzgerald

Unwrapped a new journal,
With a chicken scratch scrawl
And small blobs of ink,
I wrote my pandemic tale:

Panic buying bogroll,
Getting food delivered,
Zooming and baking,
Fine sour dough bread.
Staying at home,
Tik Tok dancing,
Not cutting the grass,
Rewilding my hair.
Washing the hands,
Ignoring the news.
Finally lockdown ended.
Wearing the mask,
Got the hair cut,
I went back out to work,
All socially distant
Still in it together.

Four hours of scribbling
My boonkey was sore
So I closed up the book
And I went out the door.


I own a Manshed where I make stuff and think about stuff, and recently, I’ve been writing about stuff.

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