I’m Not A Poet

And I know it. Bah-dum-bump

But poetry is the idea when you’re part of a poetry workshop, where I found myself in October 2020. Perhaps this is less a poem and more a free-form stream of consciousness, but I like it all the same. Several years later, reading it is like opening a time capsule into my early pandemic state of mind.

Four Weeks

A weeklong upending

Calm, no shock

when visceral

became virtual, a pale

substitute

I am here.

Curbing our movement

curve unflattening

grasping for last

vestiges of control

I am afraid.

Reaching for others 

behind retina displays, our fear

hidden in a haze of wine

and laughter

I am coping.

Work holds

Deep breath 

Before it implodes

still,

I am lucky.

Forgotten beauty

quiet streets

clear night skies

a multitude of stars

I am.

Grocery shopping perilous

as full-contact sport 

absent toilet paper

and leadership

I am angry.

Keeping our distance

Strained, stilted

moments torn between

compassion and terror

A recognition of privilege

I am sated, healthy

I am not alone,

I am white

I am ashamed.

Numbness on loop

Time is everything

and nothing

all the same

Today, I cried.

Tomorrow, a mystery.