Verses from Quarantine
A poetry series
By Andrea Loftus / 20 May 2020
Illustration by Eloise Stringer
8pm at a distance
Like aeroplane paths we crossed each other,
the lawns became our skies.
Coordinated sidestep dances,
all that touched were eyes.
A glance, as innocent as ever,
still swift but means much more.
For now we are like poles repelling,
each other from our shores.
Monotony
Monotony.
“How would you like to pay,
by cash or by card?”
“Oh you’ve got your own bag?”
“Yeah, it isn’t that hard.”
“Americano please,
yes thank you that’s all.”
“We’re sat over there,
see, the one by the wall.”
“Shall we stay for another?”
“Oh go on then, just one”
“Come on, let’s go out!”
It will be so much fun”
“The uber is here”
“What time shall we meet?”
“Make sure you locked the house!”
“What’s the name of your street?”
“Do you know what you’re wearing?”
“Just a top and some jeans”
“Doesn’t it feel so good,
getting back our routines?”
“Come and give me a hug”
“Oh, I’ve missed you so much”
How I never quite noticed,
joys of platonic touch.
The monotonous moments,
that slip past like a breeze,
which we utter out loud,
with such effortless ease,
are still waiting for us,
to relive them once more,
and I’ll share them with you,
of that much I am sure.
I can't wait to hear
Another week I’m stuck at home,
with those who I hold dear.
Just waiting for the day to come,
when we no longer fear,
a lover’s touch, a warm embrace.
Oh I can’t wait to hear,
six simple words slip from your lips,
“Shall we go for a beer?”
“Just let me know when you’ll be free”
a text I’ve dreamed to see,
to know you’re not behind my screen,
but there within arm’s reach.
“Can we please go and get some snacks?”
means we’re preparing to relax,
not filling all our friends with dread,
as we suit up to fight for bread.
“Is there time to grab a coffee?”
Three shots poured in, the oat milk frothy.
Then another, just for good measure,
that neat, noir nectar, a simple pleasure.
Oh the bustling choir of commuter sighs,
and the tuts on a plane when a sweet baby cries.
The euphoria whenever an audience cheer,
is something I am constantly craving to hear.
“See you tomorrow”
Three small, simple words,
that for weeks upon weeks now,
I just haven’t heard.
But here they are,
so plain and clear,
just waiting there
for me to hear.
The first night
The first night.
“It starts at 9, but come whenever”
You thought that you were being clever.
But I’ll be waiting at your gate,
9 on the dot to celebrate.
“I’ve got some bottles but bring your own”
My tolerance you see, has grown
as lockdown drained my supplies down,
so maybe let’s head straight to town?
“What time will you be coming home”
That information is not known.
I plan to dance well into dawn,
in clubs, through streets, on your front lawn.
And when sleep comes, somewhat delayed
I’ll be thoroughly glad I stayed
at home for weeks, followed commands,
so now we both stand hand in hand.
Our lungs engulfed by midnight air,
sweet sweat and fingers in our hair,
out in the midst of bodies moving
united in this freedom grooving.
Art by
Words by
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