Another COVID pandemic-era poem today.
December and the Birth
Nine months, and the obvious—
we could have brought a new life
into the light of day. But this
pandemic? Not so easily shuttled
away. Uncontained, germ-y, voracious.
In other words, a young teen.
Unshaven, because immature.
Smart-mouthed and intent on silencing
those so-called adults who ought
to know better. Which way did it go?
College? A gap year? Perhaps
plumbing or electrical attracts. Perhaps
the kid we thought too aggressive
becomes a preacher in the end.
Or a gunslinger, or goes to beauty school.
Hmm. Conjecture is killing us—
no, actually, the virus does us in.
But supposition and denial,
tulip bulbs, Rembrandts, under the snow.
It’s too early, now, to know.
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