The Little Things. A poem by Lorraine Carey

Never thought I’d miss the drive to town,
ticking off items on the grocery list.
Ambling up and down aisle after aisle,
ungloved, unmasked, with friendly smiles,
cursing my trolley’s wonky wheel.
Or strolling around town, wasting time,
window shopping. Even emptying my purse
of lists and receipts, was routine,
part of an everyday, now distant
as that April cherry blossom moon.

Drinking copious amounts of coffee
just isn’t the same at home.
I’d rather be by a café window,
people watching, reading a paper
whose headlines don’t scream
of harrowing loss and a flattened curve
and talking face to face, not via Zoom
in a room with optimum coverage.

We say we’ll change.
The world we once knew,
no longer in existence. The longing for hugs,
and human touch, never craved as much
as in isolation, two metres apart
on a street, passing fleeting greetings.
Wispy hope will germinate again
like watercress shoots in a little pot,
remembering what we really have,
instead of what not.


Lorraine Carey’s a poet and artist widely published online and in print journals including Skylight 47, The Ogham Stone, Poetry Ireland Review and Prole. Her debut collection is From Doll House Windows (Revival Press). Say hello on Facebook.

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