Time On My Hands
Sitting here in my computer chair.
With numbing buns and long hair.
No barber shops open anywhere.
Why change clothes? Who really cares?
The quarantine is a quantum leap.
You will sow what you will reap.
If boredom doesn’t kill me first.
This is becoming a real curse.
I could write the Great American Novel.
If I wasn’t so far in denial.
Maybe I could invent a tool.
One that would satisfy any fool.
Sell it on the internet.
Say profits go to support a vet.
What am I saying? Read more books.
Learn to cook. Work on my looks.
Learn a foreign language in my spare time.
Babble just won’t work for me. I can’t sign.
Maybe learn a musical instrument.
All my talent has up and went.
Now I know how flag pole sitters felt.
Bored as hell come freeze or melt.
Is there a light at the end of the tunnel?
The one that looks a lot like a funnel.
We are all in this together they say.
But, I’m not one who likes to play.
Rubbing Vicks between my toes.
Will it work on fungus? No one knows.
I could shower, but it doesn’t seem worth it.
20 seconds of scrubbing just don’t cut it.
I can talk with other friends by phone.
For some reason they are always home.
I tell you, it is quite a life.
Stuck 24/7 in the house with the wife.
I can say things are getting fearful.
When Carol Baskin is a hero.
I guess I could write a poem for fun.
Have to hope I don’t offend anyone.
————————————-R.W. Johnson—–(2020)