Poems come and go
By a wordsmith’s tap
No longer does the quill
Scratch the parchment
On a wobbly lectern
Under a moonless sky
At the quivering candlelight
But now sitting quite
Quietly with the phone
On her bed’s side
Staring at the white blinds
Shielding the writer
From the virus’s world
Knowing that nobody
Is safe - only from within
A healthy self ironical
Humorous whimsical mind
Can one dig up a defense
And pen it the poet must
by hitting the letters hard -
the little ditty is done
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