No customary habits can emerge
when custom changes every other day.
I heard we need no mask. Infection’s surge
then made the experts change the words they say.
First respiratory droplets brought the scourge –
they’re now suspecting aerosol array.
No longer are our days what we expect.
It’s Tuesday, right? At least that can be checked.
(Ottava Rima)
Some thought Coronavirus was a flu
like those we knew, and bound to hibernate
when our humidity and warming grew,
but summer’s here and illness won’t abate.
The optimists assert it’s like a cold,
and though our URI’s are not controlled,
they think directed research might prevail
to battle colds and COVID. Yet they fail.
In my opinion, both those views are wrong
(and lacking facts, opinion’s what I own;
it feels like all we have’s a big unknown).
I’ll cleave to science, reason, and a strong
aversion to pronouncements from a throne
(I wish it were November now, I groan).
(Pushkin Sonnet)
The journalists wanna rake over
the evidence Feds won’t make over.
But research is clear
tests would just interfere.
We can’t let the science take over.
They say it doesn’t
flourish in humidity.
We’re blessed with damp air.
The bug is new, and creatures who should lead
are aiming, if they have an aim, to block
emerging facts from notice. They impede
statistics, bury data. It would shock
us but our tolerance to stupid, bad
and venal is beyond absurdity.
Decisions we deplore and deem as mad
have burst the bounds of incredulity.
We know so little. Every clue we get
is masked or filtered like a nurse’s face.
We haven’t figured out prevention yet,
although we wash and hunker down in place,
and try to follow masking protocols
which won’t protect from viral aerosols.
My garden attitude’s benign neglect;
I never went for soil on my hands
or stooping. I’m so old my neck is wrecked
from telephones and tension – I don’t need
to stress my knees and back as I’d expect
if I were to address each sprouting weed.
Now trapped at home, I notice and inspect
the buds of roses, where the frond expands,
and how the light is perfectly correct.
The root canal and implant surgery,
my dental treatments during quarantine,
one necessary, one appropriate,
are why I ventured from the sanity
of home alone and comfortable hygiene
(the pain and symptoms weren’t counterfeit).
A hair salon I’d fain be going to,
and restaurants I miss would be my scene,
but I’m compelled in dental chairs to sit.
My mouth is weak. My problem’s owing to
bad spit.
(Curtal Sonnet)
My hermitage was built last century –
three score and sixteen years ago (they say,
who keep a file on the property).
Constructed as a guest house then, today
the Codes would not permit my place to be
so on-the-edge it’s just a wall away
from neighbors. Perfect privacy is worth
investing in my favorite spot on earth.
(Ottava Rima)
He has a walk-through bedroom, in between
his parents’ and the kitchen’s narrow end.
(Their flat is old – Victorian or Queen
Anne modified to serve the housing trend).
The woodwork is original – the doors
have panels, knobs and holes for vintage keys.
I follow Sam around when he explores –
he’s 3 years old and tells me what he sees.
It’s normal that he’s nervous in his bed
alone at night – of course he’s vigilant.
Examining his walls and doors instead
of sleeping, one keyhole’s an instrument
for checking on his folks’ activities.
He says he’d like a bigger keyhole, please.
![220px-Cerebral_lobes[1]](https://sputterpub.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/220px-cerebral_lobes1.png?w=165&h=193)
I seldom see the good in boundaries;
I tend to play at work and work at play.
I set a goal, approach it by degrees,
but when it’s reached it doesn’t go away.
Some friends I love and honor lack the heart
to set the time for new, and make a start.
While I initiate unlike those friends,
I seem to have an issue seeing ends.
I didn’t close affairs – I tried to change
them, but my lovers always disagreed.
I quit tobacco but did not impede
my social hits. And now it’s nothing strange
that my retirement did not proceed
in full. There’s still some worth in work I need.
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