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Not everyone grows fat
during a quarantine. Look at me,
just this morning I took the stairs
after picking up milk from the guard
watching over deliveries of
all my neighbors.
On floor one, I saw a mask in a bin and ran towards the second, heart racing
but that was just
runners high.
I climbed past unkempt staircases,
I thought of the missing cleaners,
but I was just panting too much
to think anymore.
I reached 16th floor and took the lift;
22nd floor is vacant except me.
A man in blue emerged outside the lift, scrubbing the floor,

but I just screamed.
A few weeks ago,
seeing a man was no big deal.
My heart has now grown
the size of a sinking boulder in Mount Everest
about to set off an avalanche.
Everyone gets fat during a quarantine —
the weight of sadness can not be measured on a scale.

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