The quarantine begins to fall apart
but then, the word emerged from “40” days,
and 53 have finished since the start
of house-arrested isolated ways.
Our discipline is cracking – spring displays
bring people out and home sequester leaks.
The smartest strategy shows signs of craze,
and cracks will grow to chasms within weeks.
I’m sick of this – to leave my place
I mask my face.
The social berth is six feet wide,
or stay inside.
It’s harder than mere loneliness
without your kiss.
I’m tough but what I really miss
are days each week of play with you.
We’ll have more time, but till we’re through
I mask my face or stay inside, without your kiss.
We needn’t agitate about the news,
when all we know for sure is we don’t know.
Reportage seeks no depth; it tries to flow
at us in summaries. For any who’s
experienced with something papers choose
to tell or anchors to describe just so,
it’s only the production of a show,
and won’t with facts the latest word confuse.
I freaked out during Desert Storm, as well
as when the markets cratered in ‘08.
I tried to be informed, but couldn’t tell
the facts from hype, and never felt the weight
of full disclosure. Dread events befell,
and we were rendered senseless, like it’s fate.
Exposed by ten to some geography,
I learned the names of land and water mass,
and wondered why we numbered seven seas
when all were clearly one. The kids in class
had no complaint; I tried not to harass –
I knew how useful names convey so much,
but never couldn’t see the oceans touch.
My father warned about conspiracies
when I, 13, attracted to the right,
gave credence to dramatic theories.
He told me members had to be more smart
and able to keep secrets none can squeeze
than any I or even he has met.
So now I’m trying to ignore the tease
of clotting, antibodies that won’t fight,
and failure of considered remedies…
The jury’s out, in doubt, about our fate.
We note the plants and planet will endure;
in other words the hummingbirds elate.
Arrested, it’s my lot to isolate
within a garden, soothed and yet unsure;
the jury’s out, in doubt, about our fate.
Now rose and lemon buds proliferate.
New growth unfurls and scent creates allure;
in other words the hummingbirds elate.
I’m drawn to green but have to concentrate
my pleasure here, alone and near obscure.
The jury’s out, in doubt, about our fate.
So far I’m lucky, healthy – I can wait
and note the birdsong as the plants mature
(in other words the hummingbirds elate).
Advised to shelter longer in this state,
I’m sentenced to a garden, growing, pure.
The jury’s out, in doubt, about our fate.
In other words, the hummingbirds elate.
I trained myself to purchase what I need
and nothing more, because I hate to shop.
There’s reason now to change how I proceed.
I used to buy the crucial and then stop.
I walked and tried to keep the backpack light
with nothing more, because I hate to shop.
I dwell where food is grown, with every bite
available for purchase somewhere near;
I walk and try to keep the backpack light,
but now we live in viral atmosphere,
and I must modify my strategy
for purchase that may not be somewhere near.
My shelves had adequate capacity
before pandemic overtook the world.
Now I must modify my strategy
to recognize the mess in which we’re hurled.
I trained myself to purchase what I need
before pandemic overtook the world.
There’s reason now to change how I proceed.
When I was young, a quarter bought
a double bill of matinee.
My parents’ recollections taught
the value of a dime; I thought
how “cents-able” back in their day.
In time I wed; we sought a house.
Our parents marveled at the price.
“No central heat?” we heard them grouse.
“They’re clueless,” commented my spouse;
we didn’t think about it twice.
Our turn would come; our kids matured
and shopped for their own residence.
They showed us listings with absurd
ideas of value. No one heard
us stammering at gross expense.
Each cohort has its culture, say
historians, of music, art
and fashion. Doesn’t money play
as separator too? The way
we estimate tells us apart.
The new expression in our family
describes a FaceTime failure
we call Frozen Grandma
Pathetic fallacy requires storm
or quake, or morning overcast at least,
but we are budding, sunny, fragrant, warm.
The avian concertos have increased,
and hummingbirds are making daily feast
on spears of nascent color in the yard.
Wisteria is soft, but this is hard:
remembering it’s dangerous to kiss,
to wear the mask, and socialize on guard,
and hope that spring’s the sweetest thing we miss.
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