(Enter at your own risk.)

The traffic of quarantine is so odd.
A significant difference between today and tomorrow,
Motes of people floating by on waves of sunlight.
Loosely clustered in varying arrays of comfort.
Some see me sitting stoically, most don’t.
Pockets of conversation moving by at different rates
Creating a muddled birdsong of uselessness.
I don’t listen any more than I have to hear,
Vapid, yappy captives rattling incessantly,
Somber dictators telling everyone how it is
No one thinking it’s their problem, not them.
They are the victims of other people’s problems.

It’s not hard for me.
I already don’t like people.
Social distancing is part of my repertoire.
Fancier version of the silent treatment.
I pretend I’m infected and go from there.
I’m alone by choice.
Dancing on the edge of sanity.
Evaluating futures and worth.
I won’t pretend the gaping maw of depression isn’t there.
It’s always there.

Definitely more people walking than normal.
Possibly less driving but Sundays are weird.
Tomorrow they all go back to working at home.
Moms visited their kids, laundry got done.
Everyone is ready for nothing to change.
I go back to smoking on the front stoop.
Pretending I’m a dragon breathing fire
Hoping everything will change.