I didn’t take the quake of ‘89
as serious, although I was outside,
until I heard they killed the baseball game.
Adjusting takes me time. I knew the name
Coronavirus when identified,
but waited several weeks to toe the line
duct-taped at teller windows in my bank,
to soap for 20 seconds, and to thank
the clerks in the beleaguered stores and shops,
collectors of our trash, the nursing boon.
The rules say I’m supposed to tend my yard,
and true – the labor wouldn’t be that hard –
but I’ve resolved to pay a pal to prune
in isolation till contagion stops.