Your polo shirt is slightly askew.

Eyeliner you try and hide.

My daughter baby’s prime;

we have fought for this.

 

You now sit in classrooms,

open windows, warmth drained.

Queue, face mask clad, in corridors

dreaming of seeing faces 

 

The boy you pass notes to

you are no longer free to kiss

or find the ecstasy in another.

Your childhood is on hold.

 

We can bolster you with beliefs,

but they are ours and not yours.

A virus vicarious in its truth.

A fault you never created.