Paranoia
Her eyes slide to the side
like a Sienese saint
Painted by the brothers who died in the plague
back when there were 100 stories to tell
while bodies rotted,
left where they fell.
Escape into a place where
we can’t smell
we can’t feel
we can’t fear
But she’s convinced it’s coming:
selfie snapping
facial mapping
the lost weekend
the bottom
of the barrel.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 
It’s nice to read another poem from you, Bonnie – and another fine one.
Thank you so much John, it’s a fine compliment coming from a poet like yourself.
i was just re-reading this one……brava.
Il giorno dom 24 mag 2020 alle ore 11:40 Bonnie McClellan’s Weblog ha scritto:
> bonniemcclellan posted: “Paranoia Her eyes slide to the side like a > Sienese saint Painted by the brothers who died in the plague back when > there were 100 stories to tell while bodies rotted, left where they fell. > Escape into a place where we can’t s” >