We are shutdown.

There will be no prepared

Parvenu face at my door.

So I will wear the beloved

Tattered shirt

I could not wear before.

With no fear of any gentlemanly visit,

I will slouch in any posture,

In any cluttered corner sit.

I will play the music nobody but me

Fancies, and be short, brief, and nasty

To Whatsapp dunces.

I will sing in the bathroom as I did

When I was but an energetic kid.

In the kitchen I will cook outrageous

Dishes, cocking a snook at

Professional dervishes.

When I am tired, I will lie askew

on a rough and tumble floor,

and reject the infected world

with therapeutic snore.

I will thumb through books nobody

May read, unshackled from the

Baggage of an academic creed.

When some rogue guru delivers

Homily at prime hour, I shall press

The mute button and shout

“get thee gone slime, I am wise to Lucifer.”

 

Besides, think how many spoilers in high places

Corona embraces. That thought too

Is grist in quotidian quarantine.

Where other things have failed,–

Nationalism, religions, war–

How a sightless bug unites us all,

Obliterating contentions of yours and mine

From low to high, near to far.

May be bugs are the answer to a world

Gone mad. Bring on the bugs

They spare no cad.

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