Confined to a tiny apartment

terrified of a viral threat

she rocks in her chair listening

 

to voices in the corridor

Who is going out?

To voices in the street

Who are they? Are they infected?

 

She turned off the TV months ago

when depression became too much to bear.

 

In the silence she waits

for the danger to pass

listening to the constant

chatter of her mind.

 

Through tears she writes to loved ones

Between crazed sentences she wishes them well

“Perhaps” she says, “we’ll meet again at Christmas.”