COVID-19 Poems for the Quarantine
"Birthday in a Plague Year"
(for T. Scanlon)
The advice came down, as it will,
In ways that a child might grasp:
Wash your hands the length of time
It takes to sing “Happy Birthday.”
We’re all of us children now,
Frightened in ways that even
Our advancing age has built no
Armor for, no assurance that
It’s all a bad dream. Each morning
Seems a blessing we forgot to ask for
With our prayers, just before
The wine closed our eyes
And whispered softly, “Oh, well.
We’ll catch up some other time.”
We sneeze into our elbows
And then think, sheepishly,
“I need to dust this room.”
Our fear has left us cleaner, all little tasks
Attended to—documents in safe deposits,
(We envy those wills their security)
Go bags in the hall closet, just in case,
A list of current medications
Nestled on top, along with contacts,
Just in case.
The sameness of these days
Is broken mainly by the personal,
A bill comes due, an anniversary approaches,
(Does the florist still deliver?)
And for the truly fortunate among us,
A birthday pulls the date down
From the calendar, stock scene
From a movie that only we remember.
(March 2020)
"Staying Clean"
Each time I wash my hands
I feel I’m starting over, clean slate,
New beginning, more sinned against
Than sinning, the cleanliness enterprise
Almost surgeonly, almost imperial.
Sleep comes easily, then goes away
Just as quickly, and I’m staring into
Darkness, imagining the light,
Remembering a time when days stretched
Away into the summer distance, that
Shimmering haze on the highway ahead.
The time between here and there,
Between now and then, was where
You could live, if you weren’t careful,
If you didn’t keep tabs on the rearview,
If you stayed clean.
My skin is raspy to the touch.
She laughs and asks if I’d sand
Something down for her, an old
Coffee table to be made new perhaps,
Receptive to stain with the blessings
Of my hands. But I’m too clean
For that. Bringing nothing to the table
But the nothing in my open palms,
The stigmata of a lifeline
Crossed with wisdom,
Price of admission, and I admit to
Nothing but what we’ve all done,
The common crime, that viral invitation
Extended when we thought
We’d live forever.
(April 2020)
"April Snow"
In the midst of it all
Snow fell, masking the unopened
Tulips, the crocuses already past
Their prime, the greening Bermuda.
He awoke with oatmeal in mind
And the sharp little pain in the small
Of his back, but all that disappeared
Into grinding rage at a glance outside.
Why is it not enough that the gem-like
Days of quarantine become nothing
But now and then and maybe?
Why must stepping outside be laden
And not just the vapid indulgence of spring,
If this day be like any other?
By the time he walked the dog
The sun was shining, the sidewalks
Clear, and he was already looking forward
To a nap with a book on his face.
(April 2020)
[These are just impressions and thoughts of a retired teacher too lazy to keep a journal.]