Things I Miss After A Year Inside

I miss the taste of fish shop chips

and battered cod swimming

in salt and vinegar, and watching

the world turn past me,

for everything

is silent,

as the people make their way

down Church Street, Saturday

shopping bags in hand, smiles

painted, fixed and grinning

as Reds and Blues size each other

up and down the table, and I,

in ignorance listen to a song

as batter burns my lips.

I miss shaking hands,

although I am not sure I will

ever do so again, just appropriate

the gesture of greeting

from India, placing my hands together

in respect, as I whisper hello

to friends, neighbours, and the occasional

wanderer knocking on my door,

their hands outstretched anticipating

acknowledgement and reception,

and finding that I have no longer

the room for such personal contact,

I miss shaking hands, but I shall wave

in welcome, instead.

I miss the comfort of a record shop,

the chance to peruse and dither,

the gamble of the finger

trembling moment

when an object of affection

reveals itself to me,

and I slowly run my eyes over her

body, her shape and form, caress

the inlay sleeve, quivering

with expectancy, eager to take her home

and play her loudly, and stare

at the cover, trying to figure

her meaning, message,

and misunderstanding completely.

I miss you, my dear pal,

though in truth it had been so long

since we spoke

face to face

and no amount of side effect

brought on by technology

will replace that feeling of

being seen by you

anyway, I found

you cannot make a memory

out of chips

and ones and zeros, out of bits and bytes

so after a year inside

I miss life.

Ian D. Hall 2021