I have been at this desk for twenty minutes.
I wanted to write a poem
and I did not want to write about the lockdown tonight.
This is not new though,
staring at a blank screen,
meeting the feeling that I have run out of words,
run out of things to write about.
In the other room,
she uses a crochet hook,
makes loops from an orange ball of wool
while listening to a podcast.
When I walk back,
she tells me she’s weaving a pumpkin.
The crocheting is unaffected as she talks.
To paraphrase Douglas Adams,
her fingers move just as fast as mine don’t.
I remember she has woven mufflers and coasters
while watching Netflix shows.
And here I am,
still struggling to write a half-decent line.
Damn, why did I pick poetry?
Day 5 of the 21-day lockdown in India