I sigh for the call to end stay-in-place, to lift the quarantine become quotidian,

buoyed by a wave as my neighbor walks past beyond the window. I dread waiting

 

now even longer, no fever so far; did I disinfect what I got from the mailman?

A sneeze and sniffle strike me with panic, before I recall allergy instead waiting.

 

Over-exhausted from on-screen meetings, overrun with the diarrhea of news,

wishing for a useful way I might help, and yet not catch or spread. Waiting,

 

afraid to let in a repairman to fix my toilet leak or blown house fuse,

my dead car battery. I’m thankful to snag delivered food to stay well-fed, waiting.

 

Could the consequence of my compliance, my keeping distance to flatten the curve,

merely result in insufficient ventilators, even with those off the flatbed, waiting,

 

and finally distributed? Numbers of healthy providers are depleted, none left to serve

by the time the surge arrives and alas, I fall ill, since more virions bred. Waiting,

 

now horror-struck, I read a group of authorities with their algorithmic sheets

made guidelines to mandate fair allocation. If there’s one free ICU bed waiting

 

when, after careful precautions, I succumb, this group’s verdict for rationing deletes

advice from my doctor and family: a lottery, guilt-free. My hope will shred. Waiting….

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poets note: this piece was inspired by an article in the New England Journal of Medicine.

stunning image by artist and poet Stuart M Buck, find his online store (and humorous inspiration via his Twitter feed.