“We never prattle on
the other pandemic,”
says the widow.
I raise a toast to the spirit,
and swill down the image –
he with his gun
inserted into his mouth
moments before his brain
dye the wall.
The art of dying makes me
see an abstract of a house shrew
searching for food in garbage.
I raise a second toast.
The secret pandemic.
I have another friend fallen from life.
I excused myself from his wake.
The year browns outside, not over yet.
The ground hides its hide beneath
the pelt of green,
far too long I haven’t trampled the yard.
The road elongates the emptiness
I am afraid I shall miss
when people inhabits the asphalt again.
“Too soon, quarantine,” I murmur,
“Don’t end yet. Pandemic is alive.”
Photo Nick Victor