The news is unrelenting,
counts of the ill and the lost.
Medieval din of accusations and blame.
In our isolation, I imagine a lumbering
wooden cart shuddering over slickened cobbles
laden with the dead.
Skin of our hands cracked,
bleeding from incessant scrubbing.
Solitary social distances reluctantly maintained.
Masks the latest fashion statement.
Joy put on hold for another season,
some unknown future when we can venture out,
hold family and friends in our arms,
not simply viewed on phone or computer.
I mourn for other non-rancorous days
before every disaster served some
political end, before Us versus Them
replaced baseball as the national pastime.
If you have any thoughts on
this poem, Pamela Jessen would
be pleased to hear them.