Life on the Planet Corona

 

The sky,

full of itself,

looks down

with nothing

else to give.

You are so thirsty

you wish for rain.

You mutter like

a dying man

face down in

the flotsam

of a night

of bad dreams.

But no dream

is bad;

every dream

worth

its salt.

 

Do you wish

or pray for rain?

If you pray for rain

is that prayer

a real prayer

if its prayed

by a huckster

pointing his rod

at a faucet?

Are you

virus or vessel

and which

the diviner?

 

Lying here you feel

something vital

is being taken

from you.

Something other

is using your body

to stay alive.

Whatever it is,

it’s desperate,

greedier for life

than you.

 

You hear

a distant siren

feel its way

through the city

toward some

anonymous need.

But not yours.

Why be content

to fish for

God in the sky?

Are you hoping

to snag him

on this very line?

Would that you

could extract

a message of grace

in spite of yourself.

 

Across the street

at the Port Authority

asylum seekers

are stepping off buses

wanting what you

want:

the right to grow free.

But this is no garden.

Here on planet Corona,

it takes a crack

for a seed

to find light

enough to grow.

 

If you hadn’t been

so happy there

would you be hurting

this much here?

Only when one feels

the loss of something

does it take on  

its proper

measure;

a reward

reserved

for only those

who can let go.

 

The local tribe

of pot bangers

brings you to

the window.

It must be 7:00.

Their noise making,

an impromptu call

to honor those

who care for

others.

Why not make

your heart

a makeshift drum?

 

If this is joy

had you ever been

truly happy?

You who’d always

insisted on going

your own way.

If so, why?

Imagine if

as a teenager

love had

landed you in

an institution.

Love literally

made you ill.

Believing love

couldn’t exist

without heartbreak,

this loneliness

will make for a

sorry state

of grace.

 

 

9/01/22