Talking to Myself Twenty-Six

Zinnias and cosmos a few years ago in my backyard.

Talking to Myself Twenty-Six June 14, 2020

Our Corona Virus Nineteen is supposed
to be going away, but each day there
are more deaths, more cases. The numbers
are going up, not down. We are living in
our houses all the time, if we’re careful.
But we see the rebels rushing by in fast
trucks, on speeding motorcycles. The
neighbors play loud music. The reports
of the pandemic show it’s getting worse,
not better. Some people wear masks
in the grocery store, in the mini-mart,
in the post office, but some don’t. They
keep urging us: “Wash your hands, wear
a mask, wait six feet apart.” There were 
protests and worse. People in crowds
yelling, “Black lives matter,” The crowds
carry the virus. We know about germs
now. We’re too angry to follow our
governor’s rules. I lost a filling, but
I haven’t called the dentist back or gone 
for my eye appointment. I can take off
the boot I’ve worn ten weeks. Will I
walk okay? Resume my balance? Go
outside more? Can I help plant the
flower seeds? Can I go back to feeding
the hens? When will it be safe to drive 
to the stores? Let people into the house?
Hug each other? Will I be alive when
the virus finally dies? Or will it die?
Will our lack of patience do us in? What 

will it take to outlive a pandemic?