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.