Now That Time Has Left Us
This feels wrong, like
a simulation. Like a simulation
whose life has been canceled
indefinitely.
Like a sim, sitting
on the toilet, phone in hand—
but nothing comes out. The satisfaction
of that first morning plop, suffering
in stillness.
Meanwhile, the drive
on which the simulation exists
gets buried. At first, it was a shirt—
then, a few textbooks
marked obsolete by the
indefiniteness of this existence.
Pizza boxes teeter
on top of an old incomplete boardgame
partially covered by bits
of rusted metal rims relocated from
elsewhere. A frisbee whose stickiness
came from the half-full old milk
carton poking out of a half
eaten half-rotten Adidas shoe box.
Now that time has left you
all of these presents— they must
be cleared for the plop
to reach its destination. Except
they’ve been cemented
in place.
This is what life as usual during COVID-19 is like.