Trapped in a Book

Imagine if you woke up
in your favourite book,
would you take the side lines
afraid you might mess up
the plot line so delicate,
so intricately written?
Would that convince you somehow to stay hidden?
Or perhaps you'd be eager to push your way
into the inner circle like Dan Humphrey?
Maybe you'd have your own story or something,
taking place in the backdrop of your favourite setting?

But what if your favourite story is horror?
Would you want to be involved in that drama?
Would you feel the fear more acutely in the dark of the shadows,
without the safety net of being at home, hugging your pillow?
In a love triangle would you make it a square?
Trying to be a bystander but unaware
that the eyes of the protagonist are staring at you
when they really should be staring through!

Oh the possibilities that present when you live in a story
you've read thousands of times over, so you don't need to worry,
you know how everything is going to end,
you'll marry him, or her, or win over that friend,
the enemy will die, or both lovers perhaps will,
but that's okay, you could prepare for that ill.

Well, one day, somehow, we all woke up
only we weren't living in our favourite book,
but had stumbled into science fiction,
as easily as walking to our kitchen.
A daily walk,
or maybe a run,
cancellation station,
virtual fun.
2 metre gaps,
queues for miles out the shop,
elderly inside,
behind doors firmly locked.
Restaurants, bars, shops closed,
seasons change as we stare out the window.
Protection,
hand gel,
infection,
trying to keep well,
panic buyers,
I'll trade you loo roll for pasta,
garage stocked up won't get us through any faster.

Suddenly we're in history,
suddenly, it happened so suddenly,
trapped by social distance or anxiety?
Or OCD?
Or trapped with me?
And usually,
I dance my way out,
of trouble, worry, or doubt.
But no-one has ever been here before,
no-one knows what works yet or
what's the best thing to do
when life as you knew
has upped and left
you alone and bereft. 

What's worse is that it occurs to me,
and again it happens suddenly,
that no-one will ever write a book
about the 30-something who took one look
out the window during lockdown
and decided not to drown
in the social silence
so replaced it with the sound
of old-school retro songs
from the days of her youth
and let her body take her
to some place new!
Every move an ode to the days long past,
days that I wish right now I could have back;
when outside wasn't scary,
and no sanitizer, no worries,
and a supermarket delivery slot
was ten to a penny.

So maybe I'm not making history,
but since I'm in this sci-fi
I'm not gonna let this pass me by.
Time to write,
to sing,
to dance,
to talk,
to laugh,
to clean,
to Skype,
to Zoom (whatever that is)
to move my feet,
refuse to miss a beat.
And if no-one is going to write my story,
then I won't admit defeat...
I'll just write this poem instead.