We catapulted 2020 over the moat and into the dungheap of history only to discover 2021. Another year of yikes. And incongruously, a winter of stupefying boredom, stymied by the ankle bracelet of COVID. Sigh.
In the Winter of Fever
The snow blows down day after day–
shovel and drift, plow and plow again.
Icicles grow from the eaves, are knocked
down, only to grow right back again.
The pandemic numbers spike highest
(more than 200 in town now) as we queue
through the field house for first shots in arms.
The year has turned toward Groundhog Day.
And like the movie, each day reruns the last,
an indistinguishable chug of numb boredom
backed by a chaser of fear. The second shot
will come soon, if it comes in time. Then what?
Will I sleep the night through? Will everybody
be okay? Will the borders open? Will this still be
America? Hard to say. Like Tyson said: “Everybody
has a plan until you punch them in the face.”
sometime a poem is a poem
sometimes a poem is a poem with history