The streets are empty.
It’s gorgeous outside right now.
Days inside fixing puzzles,
watering plants for sun to plow.

The beats are empty,
silently slide the ride right now.
Sit alone by a fireplace,
left waiting like tears on a clown.

Quarantine.
All these beans and pieces and pages,
I can’t find boring.

I walk around my room.
Ceiling fan’s my only fan,
but one of these days I’ll bloom.

I jump around my bed.
Ceiling fan’s my only fan,
and still things get to my head.

Their hearts flew, distance.
Suddenly inside somehow.
Pace in there, in the desert,
writing out happy and the frowns.

Their art skewed distance.
Speaking up through screens somehow.
Nights around the rectangle,
‘til six feet takes its final bow.

They say some things differently.
Not asking, just laughing, there’s no one around.
Another corner piece.
Talking to myself.

Thoughts flew distant.
It looked so nice out there today,
and I stand up because I can’t just stay.
Walk over there just to see it, turn around, and say,
‘the last corner piece!’ from six feet away.

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