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.