I'm in the Q-Zone. I've never felt so not-all-alone. I'm on video chats with my friends all day. I simply have no time to go out and play. This quarantine affords me no alone-time in my house. I don't even have time to clean out the mouse That keeps me company. But seriously, there's simply no time for me. Am I serious? Do I jest? Do I waste meaning, to rhyme the rest? Do I make puns to pass the day? Do I clean, and clean, and clean and pray? Do I queue-up in the hopes of hording multitudes of supplies? Is that the only ‘Q’ in the title, “Q-Zone”, that applies? Does this maybe sound like the Grinch's creator? Can't I save all this washing and cleaning and sanitizing for later? That's it I'm done, this poem's through, I'm stepping out. I'm searching for you! I'm coming real close— under six feet. I'll caress your neck and whisper real sweet. I'll stare as your scare runs you away. I'll chase you and grab you and carry you away. I'll slap your thighs, and graze your legs, Or I'll just fry up some sausage, scramble some eggs— Clean up the stove when I am through— Wash my hands, like all of you... Go to sleep, tired again, Then log off, log on, log off, then on— to find my friends.