A POET'S BLUES

I could tell you
Of this artists cradle:

But the Green Room
has my eyes locked away

No dancers
No poets
No singing voices

The waiting pew
Of the National  theatre is empty,
The show we are waiting for
Is entitled loneliness

The famous shade
For Monday Jam Sessions
Coughs coldness
I could tell the music
But my ears are quarantined

My art is coughing
CORONA FLU

And the jam session
The dance floor
The cold plays
Iced off stage-drama
Hold me away.

I could tell you where
But feet are folded.

At home.