Stay at Home Prison

I miss my job; the heat, the smells, the people, the love.
I miss the wildflowers in March and the speckled mountain above.
I doze about the buildings: stone and wood.
Dressing up real pretty, just because I could.
I ponder the thought of it now, empty as could be,
Are guests still visiting and are they in turn, missing me?
The darkened shops and museums are a daunting rumination.
Can we recover from this blatant affectation?
I miss my job because it isn’t this stay at home prison.
Trapping me in isolation, a personal hell to live in.
I love my job. It brings me happiness and care.
Something I do not get at home, I really wish I was there.
This quarantine will save some lives, this is a given.
But it’s killing me slowly with its stay at home prison.