by J.P. Celia

They pluck a novel from a shelf,
Peruse its contents, put it back.
They contemplate the inner self,
Grow bored by what they find, and snack.

They move from bed to couch to chair.
They hear the mousy seconds crawl
Beneath the floorboards while they stare
At crooked artwork on the wall.

They watch a movie, play a song.
They brew a pot, redecorate.
They ask themselves if it is wrong
To mix a drink or masturbate

While people die; they’re far from sure.
They toss on antiseptic sheets.
They’re told there isn’t yet a cure.
They dream of restaurants, crowded streets.