I wrote no poem yesterday, 

The words dried up, constricting 

My throat, like the onset of a bad cold, 

A hacking cough and fever. 

Fever is a bad word now, 

Being sick is a colossal mistake. 

The cousin passed away last week

No, it wasn’t the Novel Corona virus

She had been suffering, and was weak.

I stare into the darkened room, 

Looking far beyond into memories

In rose tinted hues of laughter

And the family getting together. 

Who cares? Who cares that I did not write

Who missed my poetry? 

Who cares about the dead now?

Bodies cradled in arms

bodies cremated without fuss

Bone and flesh fusing together

In a congealed mass? I cradle

This poem in unrhymed verse

Words and thoughts fusing together 

Marinated in sunshine of the past

Melting into a congealed mass.