Strange Times Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Surgical gloves are as precious as Indian tigers
Apartments smell of sweaty dogs, stale socks
Vending machines are unexploded bombs
Masked strangers exercise in the rain
Under their solitary umbrellas
Clowns sigh for locked down circuses
Bananas turn brown on food shelves
Stairs at stations are racks of empty air
Will death be passed on at the platform?
The old spit pips from apples one day
Fill coffins the next

Meanwhile, Nature rejoices
Its number one polluter
Has had its wings clipped