found and lost
Updated: 2 days ago
I was sort of adrift. A child.
Extremely strict and fully compliant, like your footprints.
My mother's femur was bearing a full week,
not in a spin because of dining room JETs,
or the precautions of being able to wear branches … hahaha!
Horrible thing to deal with.
The runners are apparently huge.
Backlogs bite the crust.
The vibe started out at the door, until invited in. BLOODY expensive.
The dressings are almost able to stand up in a response bravado
and other quarters.
The distance of my kennel hand is a wipe down.
Every man and woman and weight has to settle,
each someone in their home, watching and ordering from there.
I have got a little face covering.
Every couple of days, she breaks her leg wrenching
and doesn’t have transport.
Who knows setbacks and various bits of wood!
Not a big brace - helluva impressive.
Scared about special permission and progress, and the near future.
Pharmacies have been socialising quietly for weeks
with thorns and goats.
I might end on every shopping trolley for ONE carer,
but am more concerned about the police.
The street is wearing those things, bloody brutal, numbers of months.
You can’t approach the counter and must state your masks.
There’s no Michael carving “molars” out of hope.
My mother’s losing her fight to enjoy.
Must be hard moving.
She’s fractured somewhere else. Shit!
Lying there, losing muscle, losing retirement, the boutique spirit.
He should carve some devil thorns.
Commuter buses have been banned per household.
Lockdown finally decided to meet my reserve list.
The floors are taped and hit Amazon HARD!
I won’t get many more mothers.
I am indebted to the Arts Council for funding a project to write poems during, but not necessarily about, the lockdown. I am writing these narratives in response to stories given. Thanks to Angie in Zimbabwe for this one. I manipulated elements from her narrative to create a collage.