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Pour me another quarantini
We had blizzard warnings for weeks.
Deadly cinder flakes started to fall,
and kept falling, piling on,
day and night, like dirty snow,
like lava and ashes that rose
to our knees and thighs.
Dark masses drifted over the Brooklyn Bridge,
over Empire State Building,
over the Hudson River,
into New Jersey.
Gray lizards over suburban houses,
the virus storms raged on the roofs.
And we stayed home,
buried in our warm-lit bubble,
boiling pasta, stirring the sauce,
and watching the grim news.
Forget the news, you said,
it's never good.
Pour me another quaratini
and find a comedy on cable.
Melissa McCarthy knows
the way out of this mess.
Hundreds of years from now,
when they'll find us,
the journal I'm keeping will be an artifact,
a chronicle of quarantined times
recording the staggering numbers.
They'll uncover us, embraced,
feet tangled on the couch,
still laughing in the house's belly.
I can hear your heartbeat with my nose.
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