Lock Down
09/11/2020
Lonely souls left to worry,
the furtive enemy lurks,
rest plenty, less hurry,
from home, everyone works
The count went one, two,
looking for who to point to,
then it went three, four,
stopped moving out the door
The count went five, six,
knew t’was no easy fix,
when it went seven, eight,
then you truly felt the weight
Grief stretched week to week,
weeks turned to months long,
to end this quick, each of us seek,
hope we not be proven wrong
A Lipogram poetry contest
Sponsor: Emily Pinet
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