What a weird time to be alive
my old neighbour kept saying
news hounding like an air raid
siren I press my face up against
the warmest chunk of wall asking
if he needs any new supplies I’m
here too I whisper turning the news
down turning my phone on shaking
the fridge saying hang in there little
buddy we’re all a bit emptier now
watching the rice creep inside black
sanitise my last plant keeping each
window shut mum forget the garden
today let April look after us – news
bulletins say it’s on the up 45 says
he’s on the up tonight we’ll sleep
inside our rubber mirrors waving
at each other through cracked
screens and paper masks like kids
who jumped the gates loneliness
needs us now more than ever
the lady upstairs I know she’s
there her babies too nobody here
has seen the ground in weeks in
months we’ll still be running
Anthony Anaxagorou is a British-born Cypriot poet. His second collection, After the Formalities (Penned in the Margins), was shortlisted for the 2019 TS Eliot Prize.
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This article appears in the 22 Apr 2020 issue of the New Statesman, The coronavirus timebomb