Robert Cooperman
Coronavirus Front Yard Party
We haven’t seen Kathy and Dennis
for we don’t know how long,
missing our weekly breakfasts,
so now that the stay-at-home orders
have been sort of eased, we visit and sit
like chess pieces on the four corner tiles
of their front yard, practically shouting.
With our masks on, we could be
Old West stage robbers, not four
harmless geezers discussing books,
the murder mysteries we’ve watched,
and wondering when this plague will end
and also Captain Clorox’s reign of terror,
while rapping our fists on chair arms,
as if good-luck wood, that no one we love
has been afflicted, so far.
When Beth and I rise to leave, we blow kisses,
make Namaste-bow farewells,
say we’ll see them soon, but how we miss
those lingering breakfasts: the coffee,
pancakes, omelets, the great conversations,
and best, the hugs: almost forgetting
how important: to touch the ones we love,
too many innocents no longer with that luxury.
