I sit in my porch and wonder,
This Covid nineteen,
Or is it twenty, or twenty-one?
I am bored to death but scared even more.
Oh those were the days,
The housewives’ meetings,
The coffee mornings at the scrabble club
The too-good-to- be- true chit chat.
I am seventy-five, healthy and hearty,
Except, I now hear some voices,
Some friendly, and some fearful,
They make me anxious of disaster.
I live with my divorced son,
Who can’t even see his only son,
This shared custody business,
And that bitch, who broke his heart.
I wait for him, to come downstairs,
In front of that computer, chatting and typing,
I don’t trust this online working ,
A doorway to hell for the idling mind.
My migraines are back, and this dull headache,
The doctor refuses to see me in person ,
Says that I need to eat and sleep better ,
And stop thinking of this pandemic season.
‘How do I stop thinking, doctor?,’ I ask over the phone,
He didn’t have an answer.
He was thinking of ‘not thinking’
I bully that young funny clinician .
I’d like the covid to go away ,
I have lived a productive life, thank you!
I’m not old but covid forces me to age
Way before my time, and more.
Gone are the days of laughter ,
The singing ladies, of the church choir,
The gaudy lipsticks, that only sticks on masks now,
The tea parties that ended with a shot of whisky.
I like that sweet voice at times,
She is calm and enigmatic, like my grandmother,
Inviting me to a space , mysterious,
To escape the monotony and tedium.
I don’t like the whisper of suspicion,
I think they are all coming to burn us at stake.
Those men in black , with sunglasses and gloves,
Sending me on a guilt trip down the memory lane.
Oh hello girl! There she is again,
I am falling asleep or am I entering,
To her world, of secret labyrinthine alleyways ,
The plots and counterplots she eludes.
Or am I actually losing my mind?
Is this what they call ‘going crazy’?
But for now I don’t mind,
As she is the only comfort I have.