All my poems have wandered away,
most likely spaced at least six feet apart.
They have hunkered down in their homes.
Right now they’re most likely adjusting masks
or wiping down surfaces thoroughly once more
in days which drift on in as nameless spans of time.
I can nudge them, but I already know responses.
They, ones usually overflowing with phraseology,
have nothing, nothing to say. Not today. Not today.