Now we know pandemics make

for a shortage of toilet paper

and self-restraint. Turns out

we can’t all be preppers;

real pundits know better

than to leave room in cupboards,

space-efficient, like Manila’s slums.

Distance is a luxury,

so is cool air and quiet from houses,

the sound of biting nails

crusted from begging in harsh heat

even as compassion dries up like a lake.
Some of us, safe in our couches,

wonder how we got from summer dreams

to respirators, daily scrolling

through a blend of death tolls

and fake news of dolphins reclaiming space.

They don’t make headlines

about rooms shedding a square foot each day,

pressing us closer to our trepidation. 
Meanwhile, Earth thrives without us.

What if our last memory of the world

is a hospital wall?

So we retreat to our small countries,

as on Sundays.  My folks recite psalms

to the tube, a faint quiver in their voices,

their hands cupped like troughs catching rain

in an empty St. Peter’s Square.