to say we were lost boys would be cliché
but clichés have ways
of cementing truths into language
like hard red suns that scorched West Philly & warm beers we guzzled ‘till we couldn’t walk straight & time went missing like a thief
who stole my innocence
& we packed into an old sedan on a road to nowhere &
perhaps, if time is not linear, this had to happen &
if free will is a myth, we had no choice in the matter,
merely swigging, smoking, fighting in adolescent wastelands
Garbage piles up on street corners, you can smell it
everywhere you go – a trash crisis, another effect
of the pandemic, giving the town an apocalyptic feel
as we deal with a failing economy, killer virus,
foreboding sense that we’re plunging into an abyss –
but excuse me, miss, we’re resilient, us humans,
even if rubbish surrounds us and the president astounds us,
we find a way to keep the faith.
(Photo by chris liu on Unsplash)
Here’s a piece of flash fiction I wrote a couple of years ago that, I suppose, is semi-autobiographical. It’s about loneliness and the yearning for human connection.
Here we are, nearly four months into the pandemic. The whole thing has been a very strange experience, for all us. It’s been a shared experience across the planet, though some countries have managed it better than others. I’m learning that the ability to adapt is so important.