The moon on the horizon casts its shadows long,
streaking the ground with images of prison bars.
Somewhere, a wolf is howling its worshipful song,
emboldened by the absence of disturbing cars.
The shadows stretch toward me at my window view,
painting dark vertical stripes upon my white clothes.
Bemused, I half-expect to see a number, too,
completing the metaphor the moon shadow shows.
Lately, it’s too easy to feel a prisoner
staying sheltered in place for social distancing.
Do I need to come begging a petitioner
for the simple act of gathered socializing?
For now please tell guardian moon I will abide
however much I hate staying cooped up inside.