Abed I lay at 3 a.m., my worries in full swing,
my brain alert, eschewing REM, conjectures wandering.
I fantasized about escape from rampant viral flu,
but soon recalled the awful shape from graphic points of view.
No matter where on earth I’d go, both on the grid and off,
I can’t think of a berth with no raised temperature or cough
(except Tasmania, I hear, remote and unexposed,
now isolated out of fear, all access to it closed).
A flood of sudden nervousness replaces rest for me.
I can’t see past tonight’s newscast. I don’t know how we’ll be.