This is a year where ordinary life
is mothballed. Even though I know
people are nulled, livelihoods voided,
I still (spoilt child) stamp my feet
at the prospect of forfeiting yet more time,
because I have no albums stuffed with memories,
but decades lost in limbo.
Clocking in at 60 now, well past my parentsí expirations,
Iím not sure how much time I have left in hand,
to spend my lifeís late windfall.
Like love, it has been cliched by casual usage,
so that now, when each day we tightrope
walk a liminal line between realities,
we are lost for the right word.
If you have any thoughts on these poems, Fiona Sinclair would be pleased to hear them.