Poem July 18 2020 “Winners”

The eavesdrip of his wrath is death,
and daily death, and unlike the last, best
holocaust, it flails like laundry under
global scrutiny.

Where science and civics are firm friends,
survivability blooms; then dies in a bucket
overwatered
by arrogance and greed and sloth
seen as shadows on a screen
eating the burning bones of the end of the world.

Into my housebound day, a short walk.
I’m wearing a mask, because I’m
contagious
daily.
Human contact doesn’t happen.
The gap is observed.
We make two circuits of the local schoolyard
and sit it in the shade.
I nag him.
I don’t fully grasp the semblably saurian
reflex of it, a chicken pecking,
even I can see it, and I do it anyway.

This crisis won’t be dead until we are
and we won’t die as winners.