The circle closes
Those who've had it
Those who know someone who's had it
Prince Charmin knows the score
The mystery has a name
Those affected now have a name
And still the games are played
Blame and fame
And an adoring group of posers
Fingers pointed
Solutions sought in the dark
The lock returns
Shackles around the face and heart
People dying alone for their own protection
Life goes on
Circles get smaller
Until we are all touched
Or dead
These days, you want the poem to be
ReplyDeleteA mask, soft veil between what floats
Invisible, but known in the air.
You’ve just read that there’s a singer
You love who might be breathing their last,
And wish the poem could travel,
Unintrusive, as poems do from
The page to the brain, a fan’s medicine.
Those of us who are lucky enough
To stay indoors with a salary count the days
By press conference. For others, there is
Always the dog and the park, the park
And the dog. A relative calls; how you doin’?
(Are you a ghost?) The buds emerge, on time,
For their brief duty. The poem longs to be a filter, but
In floats Spring’s insistence. We wait.
ReplyDeleteWe’ve gotten two good poems in one post. Thank you both.