Blame my neighbor’s titillating apparition
who has drained her stock of Botox
by the first day of isolation – I feel
the hairs of my nape whisper, and at first
I know not how to recognise her,
then words form a sighing communication.
The first of the days of isolation. A gust of larks
and common pigeons sweeps the lane in-between.
She talks from her porch and I from mine.
There seems nothing else to talk about but this, nowhere to go but here,
no man exists save those we see.
For one who takes pride in tales of her
exotic traveling she hides her thoroughfares well.
From an unseen corner howls of the pariahs say –
Truth passes the place. Then silence.
Later I call Donna, “How are the things over there?”
Noise of sneezing and coughing answers.
“How are you?” Yet my mouth utters, “All
will shine back to summer high.”
Droplets of hope traverse the length of ether.
