by: Shirley Satterfield
A Covid Conversation Between Three Micro Poets
Friends now come in little boxes.
In daydreams and computer reality.
The mind of fantasy come to life.”
“We are all empty images.
Holograms in hell.
Under Covid’s deathly spell.”
“Every morning I wear it fresh and clean.
Every night I strip it off, filthy and hanging on a thread.
A smile in a virtual world is high maintenance.”
What’s the matter?
What’s that smell?
Holograms in hell.”