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Rated: E · Poetry · Activity · #2218717
I mistakenly think it’s Deacon John behind the mask.
I walk with haste the aisle Save-A-Lot;
Corona Virus gets the best of me.
Behind the mask is someone that I spot;
their eyes are which I base identity.

I wave but then my wave is not returned;
it is a simple gesture in the store.
Though crisis looms, annoyance stirs when spurned;
yet I indict myself forevermore.

I take it as a slap across my face;
my ego wounded by the impolite.
Therefore in haste I shop and flee this place,
to gain the April air and morning light.

  I am mistaken and feel like a knave,
  as Deacon John drives in and gives a wave.

14 Lines
Shakespearean Sonnet
Writer’s Cramp
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