In Person

I can't remember the last time I shook
another person's hand, or sensed the angles 

of shoulders on each side of a bus aisle.
I can't remember the last time we sat

on the rubbed velvet seats of a small 
theatre eating popcorn and licking 

our buttery fingers in the dark. I see 
figures in the distance, rounding the edge 

of an empty tennis court. Glancing through 
office windows, I note how far apart 

the chairs and desks are; how empty 
the water cooler. After we get 

the vaccine, in the fall, we're going to try 
to come back in person— as if, during this year 

when we thought everything we loved would be 
taken away, we who'd been abruptly exiled 

to another dimension are being told we'll start 
materializing in the old-new spaces of our lives. 
  

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