Poetry

Dispatch #047

Quarantine

By: T.S. Rowell

July 5 2020

When it began, for an uncertain duration
this was to be a month of stillness
two months of these same walls
or maybe just one summer of inside
It’s a little cowpath knot I pace
I am at the sofa, or chair, or kitchen table,
walking this circuit like
circling the drain
Flushing my prior years
of get-in-the-car to work
or get-to-the-bar evening
or get-to-the-store weekend
down, down and away
For some time first, I imagined nothing
For some time after, I began small dreams
For some time now, I see limitless sky.

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