It’s here and it lingers…

The last lap, the final leg.

No movies, no singers.

The year of the Plague.

The writers have noticed.

They’ve been driven inside.

Their thoughts and their pens.

Went along for the ride.

The artists are painting.

The complainers complain.

The adjusters adjusting.

The workers insane.

I live and I love.

It’s something to do.

In this year of the rat.

So good for so few.