Dear Mr. Virus
You saved me from handholding I suppose.
That ancient mother so far away
with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disorder.
I’ll just have to phone instead
and listen to her memories of childhood war.
And as for the ones in France,
they will just have to shift for themselves,
no visit from me in a local hotel
to break up their days with fretful young
at the allotment or the park. No cooking.
And the granddaughter needing brain surgery?
I won’t be going to their house
to cook a meal for when Mum and Dad
come home with her straight from chemo
late at night. I suppose that’s an advantage.
What it boils down to is this.
We have just had our photo taken
outside our door. Just in case.
At least they will have our picture
to remember us. You bastard.
Somewhere, siblings play.
Their laughter echoes out there
like a memory
The same bumblebee
I saw yesterday returns –
a tiny engine.
A single chem trail –
maybe a mercy mission –
scores an empty sky