From my desk, I stare at Chewy, my hamster in his cage. He gazes back, mimicking everything I do. File folders and yellow pads cover my floor. Wood chips and newspaper carpet his cage. I swig coffee quickly from my mug, He slurps water through a metal straw. I Zoom to another mind-numbing meeting, while his hamster wheel twirls. I fight with the jammed window to get fresh air, He bangs on his cage with one fervent paw. The pandemic is ending. Maybe I should go for a walk? I open his cage, and his little legs dart as fast as possible, a hostage no more. But then he stops, fear getting the better of him. I have second thoughts too, and decide to stay put. I think to myself--when did I get a hamster? I never did.
John Johnson is a poet from Northern Virginia. His recent work has been published in The Metaworker, Sundial Magazine, the Parliament Literary Journal, and the Boston Literary Magazine. A collection of his published poems can be found on his website at: poemsovercoffee.com.