Another Coronavirus Poem On Cue by John Grey

on the couch all day without guilt,
watch “Casablanca” or “All About Eve”

for the two hundredth time. Under quarantine,
I can’t go to a bookstore. Or visit friends.

Or frequent my friendly local barista.
Or eat Italian that doesn’t come out of a can.

Of course, it’s a great excuse to get work done.
Write a poem, my head tells me. Write a poem.

Just make sure you spell coronavirus correctly.
But I can’t engage my heart in the process.

Nor my imagination. So the words that come out
are about as poetic as a car wash menu.

They’re all just whining. And why would I think that
my complaining cold be any kind of comfort to yours.

I envy the bear. He hibernates
through the misery of winter.

This virus is my winter.
I’ll just call my poem “zzz” be done with it.