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Last night I cried because my dreams,

My dreams the only place I come into contact with people

Turned into virtual chatrooms, little squares with faces.

Zoom Life! It’s like Hollywood Squares for hours a day.

Now it’s dripped like nasal drainage into my dreams.

I’ve become this dog who returns to his dreams,

Who has heard the sound of food poured into his bowl.

The dog who has been told not to venture out of this room

And has done so. My work sent me an article today

About ‘working remotely,’ everything is ‘done remotely,’

Right now, which basically means, ‘have no human contact.’

In the article it reminds us, ‘there is no bubbler working remotely,’

And encourages starting “Bubbler Chat,” by sending an Emoji.

Screw that! I don’t want a unicorn or a duck hatching out of an egg.

I want to laugh about our co-worker who kept a date in her trunk.

I want to laugh about what we could put in the ‘sparkle moments,’ envelope.

When I get an old Mariah Carey song in my head, I want someone to belt it out with.

“Go on expeditions and find new spaces to work in your house,”

The article encourages, as if I’m Dora the Explorer and my studio apartment

Has magic keys to other kingdoms if I could just pronounce the sound of ‘k’ correctly.

Before God sent us all to our rooms for a few months,

Couldn’t It have given those of us who live in studios a shout out.

I mean look down, the world is divided into those who ride buses

And those who have no problem hailing cabs whenever they want.

Somedays I think about returning to the office like we used to dream of vacation.

“Damn, I can’t wait to be locked in my tiny office with its palm frond green walls.”

The site of it feeling like viewing a sharp formation of intricate and stunning

Green and Purple plumage of long to be thought of extinct birds.

“Ahhh! An office, with a water cooler, and bubbler talk…”

Wearing clothes that aren’t my pajamas, finishing a coffee that I bought,

Becoming a patron of somewhere, a place, that is not your youtube channel.

Waiting for Fridays and Sundays being Sundays instead of having a week

That feels all like one really fucked up Sunday. Growing to love 4:00.

Walking outside into the evening air. I don’t know if I’ll ever look at you the same,

Room. Look at how clean you are. The cleanliness of you is like

Scars, artifacts. I am going to have mess some stuff up,

Empty out this fridge, the person who lives here never has groceries for a week.

It might even take a new mattress, so I can sign myself out of Hollywood Squares.

For sure, the computer is going to take a vacation.

I’m sure he’s tired of me, and I need to live outside of him

For quite some time. We’re all going to have to be cautious,

The phrase, “Go to your room,” could induce PTSD symptoms.

I’ll have to avoid Costco and supermarkets that sell in bulk.

If I see anyone with mass amounts of toilet paper or bottled water,

I could be privy to hiding outside somewhere fearing another pandemic,

And I think I’m good. I get it. I’ve learned my lesson.

Be happy with each other, the earth, all that’s around us

Cause we know now Mother Earth isn’t playing

When she decides she’s had enough and it’s time for us

“To stay in our rooms and think about we’ve taken for granted.”

One thought on “Quarantined”

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