Ripples of fear run deep through a virus-infected city
Torn, terrified, twisted by the news rolling in like a second fog,
We crumble more easily than clumps of dirt —
Plagued by achy fingers, sticky toes, popping necks and collapsing stomachs, overpriced takeout, empty Amazon boxes, grainy viral videos and CNN.
The news cycle is a dull, blunt force to the head. Struck, shocked and wounded: body aches, blurred vision, croaky voices and an over-abundance of rice as the material output of flattening a curve in the absence of sanity. Our nails are bitten down to the nub and wrapped with gritty toilet paper tied with a bow.
Forgotten plants wither in the windowsill; cats look out onto the empty street.
Back in December, the streets were full. We traveled together breathing the same sweet air. We swapped hands, hugs, high fives. We bounced new babies and shared holiday canapés as we shot the breeze with cousins — maybe we’re safe to talk politics now, but wait.
I don’t mind putting a mask on my face. I sew them myself and give them away. I clumsily prick my fingers when I pin the fabric together, again and again until my fingers turn to hooves.
Maybe we’ll wind up alone on the couch for another season scrolling through Netflix flipping through shows about tigers and criminals and people from long ago living their best lives, the stories we’ve heard already a thousand times before.
We’ll scroll through the pictures we took during the last time we saw each other, and the scrolling motion will be accompanied by an artificial purring sound that someone in Cupertino had designed and the sound will be soothing.
This is how we live now, someone had said.
Someday, we’ll replenish our memories to sustain until the next time. From somewhere in California Bob Dylan paints his watercolors in a nondescript back room in a Santa Monica strip mall, humming about how the times yes they are a changin.’
When I see you next, the conversation might be uneasy. But at least we’ll be together.