Afterwards. A poem by Barbara DeCoursey Roy

People told their grandchildren how they learned to bake,
kneeled to plant vegetables, ate leftovers with cloth napkins.

For a brief time the rosary had a revival. Gun sales shot up
along with books.

Parents working from home discovered they were not
too tired for sex. Fitness centers closed and dogs lost weight.

As days grew longer, butterflies and birds returned
from Mexico, leisure travelers in a jet free sky.

Grandpa and I dusted off LPs from back in the day
when we tried to start a revolution,

watched our savings disappear, cranked up the sound
and danced like drunks at a wedding.


I live in the US near St Louis, Missouri where I write with members of Kevin Higgins Over the Edge online workshop. I have been published in The Galway Review, Headstuff, Skylight 47, and Popshot. I belong to the international writing group Poets Abroad.

1 Comment

  1. Beautifully expressed, and so original. Thank you my friend.

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