Short-sighted

En route
observe by taking in
filters
your immediate surroundings,
eyes touching face coverings,
nothing could effectively hide
what is done
inside
is being done by undoing,
by implementing more restrictions
moving
others to do the same.

We stay
inside,
like obedient house-pets
longing for fresh air
hanging our heads
out the window
we notice
how it smells
like something new.

Pacing ourselves
replaces racing toward the End where
no meetings will take place-
in person
there is less
to get, less we can do, less available, less security,
less was nevermore than just enough.

What goes around
in circles
gets smaller, our circles ellipse
until we end
up
with no points
of contact.

We leave the blanks
instead of filling our barrels with ammunition,
from six feet away
we look the same underneath
our personal protection,
mortal and our skin feels too thin.

We covered our bases
and dirt floors
until the rug unraveled
leaving the looming
predictions
dyed without a pattern.



Photograph credit: Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer, 1941 in Public domain.

Long-view

It gets worse,
or gets better.

Both
chaos and entropy
like cause and reaction
entwined for grounding
the current state.

There is no potential spark
where nothing is conductive.

This way,
we are all safe,
they say this is the only way
to survive
to sacrifice
our freedoms for fear.

What if...
the same question
was posed
If what...?

Layers of complexity are added for mystery;
Gloves, face masks, hats, sunglasses, shaggy hair, alcohol cologne, we have all become suspect(s).
To Be
Watched, traced, recorded, counted, slotted, allotted 1 per person, our fair shares tanked, our borrowed time was revoked, to be copied, pasted and erased.
Mankind does one through five:
Social Divorce, Marital sentences, home tutoring, web meeting, happy hours at home, time ambles a long dark path out of the woods, there are stones to throw and rocks to kick down the road.


Painting by Edward Mitchell Banister (1828-1901), 'Woman walking down path' c. 1882 in Public Domain.

Recipe

I used to write about food.
After that night
we had that first
big below-the-belt fight
and you challenged me
to make it-
writing,
a submission.

I took the shriveled passion-fruit
and placed them on the kitchen table.
Admiring the small brown cluster
with the tip of my pen
I finely drew out
a likeness
that read-
pink, tender, more seeds than pulp
and nearly dry
inside.

I made something
delicious and tart.

Anyway,
that is how and where the disease
began simmering,
one organ after another
changing tune in time.
It was then-remember-
I renamed
myself, mostly taking away
nourishment,
and then adding a healthy dose
of humility
garnished with a twist of fate.

The paper folded,
and I was told
you may have to wing it
from here.

It is wise to always start
by pre-heating the oven
and a word of warning,
it often makes too much
so I suggest
mixing in small batches,
or halving...

Love,
you will like making this
too-
Ease back in,
cook until the juices run clear,
take small frequent bites,
use salt for wounds sparingly,
smell before tasting,
don't look at the date,
trust your senses,
and know-
most ingredients
may be substituted
in a pinch.

Although
practice makes no promises,
it only becomes sustenance
if you can make it
again and again.







Painting by Peter Jacob Horemans (1700-1776), Still life c. 1774 in Public domain.

Never mind

There was something important
I was supposed to be doing
with my life
right now
instead
I look for
a purpose
and find myself
in your gaze
living the way we once did
one more time
it felt different despite how
intimately we held onto
memories
of the way some feelings
make us forget
ourselves.



Painting by Boris Grigoriev (1886-1939), 'Woman in a green dress' c. 1926 / Public domain.

Two steps

You are ahead of me.
I have your back
in sight
while dutifully following
your lead I am left
wondering how far behind
I will be left
looking for your steps
and contemplate your hurried
gait-

Need you sprint
in such fits and starts?

My heart gets louder
the further I am
from the life
I chase.

I can picture your intense
forward focus
and broad shoulders
pushing through
the warning signs.

It becomes easy to forget
you are not alone
without shadows for solace
without trepidation
for what lies
around the bend
and without a sense of where
and why we started
this journey
together.

You win.
I will take my time
and keep going without a
wasted scent.
The finish line
was not my destination
anyway
we will be tied
in the End.


Painting by Giovanni Boldini (1842-1931), 'The Summer Stroll' in Public Domain. 

Bad hair day

He just came to bed.
The clock is wrong.
I am late
for nothing
so I get up before the alarm
and there is a notification
waiting for me
about a suspicious charge
to approve via Texting Y or N.
The internet is not working,
the wifi dissipated
my money evaporated.

My new husband
drinks, thirsting for his further demise.
My daughter starved herself
famished for failure.
My son avoided the real world
where the day breaks
optimism down into an icy rain
while the wind is whipping up
a bad batch
of loose and split ends.




Painting by Edgar Degas (1834-1917), 'Nackte beim Kämmen' in Public Domain. 

Spark-ling

For the small moment
You did it,
rekindled the small boy scout fire,
Had fun, for a time,
Were occupied
Stoked and prodded.

Handy to have more than wood to burn.
It was not enough to last
Through the cold night.
The steam and smoke billows and blows out.
The rain sidles in with heavy
Clouded feet.
Light becomes heavy
And I reminisce over
That time we shared this manmade heat without duty
Or blame,
Was love.

Togetherness said nothing
To explain or justify its purpose
Save
Sharing the warmth emitted from
One another.

My cheeks redden for other reasons
Than blood boiling laced with whiskey

See, we don't see
The same
Pleasure or Pain
Under heat, inside pressure, cold edges and sharp sounds
like sticks piled inside the stone hearth,
a resonance is echoed in our porous bones.

There is a classical tune
Evoking
Times past and a comfort
that stays
Lost in our presence.



Painting by John George Brown (1831-1913) 'Camp in Vermont' c. 1879 in Public Domain.