I walked around for hours looking for a poem along the side of the road the branches of the trees the leaves scattering in the wind and all I found were two blisters on the bottoms of my feet that told me to go home and look again tomorrow
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it was bound to happen at some point and I'm not sure at what point it made its way in work? the cafe? the grocery store? I'm surprised I made it this far even with the masks and disinfectants and avoidance of people no matter, it's in and working its way through my veins my head, throat, sleep, nose, and tongue
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I can feel the approaching winter behind the glass and curtains waiting to freeze me down to the bones I only have this cup of tea and thin veil of fabric between me and it and it's barely enough There's nothing to do though but pass the long dark of night and wake for warmth of the next day and the next with kettle near constant boil and my cup at the ready