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Solitude
Tip toe in dark where mushrooms grow
One step at a time into the cellar cold
Where hollow finds a niche in soils void
Barefooted through chambers down below
Bottles covered in dust line up to count
The years of vintage since they’ve been found
By flashlight or human being in social distancing
A fragile ancient hand waves cobwebs away
Like a magician in the act of prestidigitation
To find the proper drink for this occasion
Take solace in the black on black tonight
When you return Netflix will have your back
Copyright ©
Earl Schumacker
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