Keeping Up with The Koronavirus

It is hard.

To first wake up

To tweets, the real ones.

Mynahs, bulbuls and magpies.

Then roll over to the side

To a screen buzzing with tweets

The other ones.

Screeching death, disease, mayhem

Like the Devil’s Raven.

It is tempting.

To look over to

A boulevard 

In a bath scented with spring flowers.

Lily, zinnia and pansies fragrant.

bathing in sunbeams,

Buck naked and totally flagrant

Because no one but me is looking.

It’s all dead empty.

It is humiliating.

To break up with the walls of my room

Cursing, shouting, grumpy.

And stomp away in pride

To crawl back after

And pretend to meet for the first time

Flirt and bit, part away again

For a rendezvous later,  

Secretly at night.

It is tiring.

To play

Lady Macbeth all day.

Scrubbing, bubbling, rubbing

And solo dance in Mask-a-rades.

At times it really seems make-believe.

Is it a grand Chinese deceive?

Or the mother of reality gigs

That pays well enough

For people to die 

For poor to trod miles,

their babies to cry.

It is ironic.

Though caged and bored to death

of replaying yesterday for today

The same

Dreary, Dull, predictable.

Yet the grand blueprint of life,

I sketched for till the end of my days

Lies tattered

with mocking gaping holes 

of cruel surprises, unseen

twists and turns that burn. 

It’s finally funny.

To realise that I have nothing

But this grime, unlucky current.

So, all the love, life, laughter,

Gratitude, prayer and care

I saved for later, 

For when I am settled and perfect somehow

Better be spilt now.

By Dhananjay Joshi