In the Time of Coronavirus

In the Time of Coronavirus 

Every other writer

is using that phrase just now —

except for the one 
whose latest post on her blog

is called Journal of the Plague Year.

And my email inbox 

and my facebook feed

carry long-winded explanations

of what COVID-19 means —

the spiritual meaning. You know:

how we’re all going to be better

because of it, how it will wake us up

to A Better Way To Live.

(That’s those who aren’t privy

to the secret [widespread] information

that it’s an evil Chinese plot

aimed straight at America and Trump.)

But what if it just happened?

I remember a friend once
who, asked how she hurt her leg, 

explained, ‘I’ve worked it out. 

I must have been feeling guilty —

I’d snapped at my husband

just that morning — 

and I think I didn’t want 

to walk forward in my life

with all that guilt inside me,

so I probably engineered

subconsciously-on-purpose ...

Her 5-year-old looked up.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You fell.’ 

My friends are dutifully writing 

their journals of introspection,

their poems of disquiet

or of hope.

I’m sitting here in the sun

in my small back yard: 

a glass of wine at my elbow, 

a novel open on my lap.

This morning I did some weeding.

I’ll do some more tomorrow.

A black-and-white butterfly, large, 

dashes over the fence,

swoops in front of my face,

then speeds away out of sight.

I decide not to make 
that 
mean anything.

Written for day 3 of April 2020 poetry month at 'imaginary garden with real toads': Existentialism. (To be characterised by: individual experience, sense of isolation, indifferent environment, responsibility for choices made.)