Looking at pictures of places I wish I could spend
The quarantine, photographs of houses
Designed by all the greats, like Walter Gropius,
I feel like some tubercular child in Victorian times,
With no other way to entertain myself
And no way to go out, who would stare at lithographs
Of Lucknow day and night while sitting in bed
Nobody would want to take a picture of this place,
Except maybe before renting it out,
There is no design to the heaps of plastic bags I swear
I’ll use one day, the mounting laundry,
And the ziggurat of books gathering dust under a table
I use to charge my cleanest possession, my phone,
Any aesthetic here is accidental, and I can’t see it.
