Caught myself moving in for a hug 
or at least a tap on my teacher friend’s
right shoulder -- acknowledgement 
of our shared humanity, bewilderment. 
Never mind that we were in the grocery store, 
an escape from social distancing, 
visiting the produce section, better than 
isolation. In Kuala Lumpur, I hear, there’s no more 
running or biking. Just staring out the window 
ugly crying when it gets to be too much, 
skyping with your neighbor or your secret love.
                        

She keeps swinging higher, the girl with pink hair, 
even when orange safety fence surrounds. I want her to
laugh, but it’s only the  up-down cre-eak of chains 
for now, the smack of skateboards at the closed park. 
It’s spring in Minnesota, people need outside. 
Sunshine is a drug, and we’re all in withdrawal. 
Only this year, it’s different. Spring 
lacks her usual sass, feels reckless – 
and not in the regular way like fast motorcycles or 
teenagers in back seats. No, this spring 
I get nervous buying milk or 
ordering a pizza. The cemetery on the knoll 
near my house feels like an old friend.
                        

A stained taupe sofa & matching love seat 
next to rolls of baby blue carpet, a splintered 
Adirondack chair, rusty fire pit, toy kitchen,
broken lawnmower, all out for curbside pickup.
Unwanted detritus of suburban lives, too bad
nobody knows how to fix anything anymore.
Damn. How we ever gonna survive the 
Apocalypse? Sitting in a circle next to 
Nance’s Jeep Cherokee in the parking lot at
Cooper High School. Feels so good to be out,
essential even, in our camping chairs, 
our knees nearly touching, as the sun 
falls behind the stadium fence, sipping 
“coffee” from our insulated mugs, 
a stone’s throw from where the kids in 
Under Armour run sprints, then stretch 
their hamstrings, seated, heads bowed, almost 
in prayer, but it’s more a silent plea to 
open schools, let them be with friends, 
not alone at home, like the junk at the curb 
no one wants to touch.