Quarantine Poem # 117

 

The Tonga Volcano eruption

When we began writing pandemic poems,

we thought it would last one year.

117 poems later, the hospitals are still full,

people are dying, health care workers

are burnt out and falling ill themselves,

and I don't remember a time when 

I didn't wear a mask. Mine has become

my second skin.

I'm okay, though.

Thanks for asking.

I am quite happy being a hermit,

staying in, safe and warm,

in my cozy rooms.

I write in the morning,

have coffee with the Property Brothers

at ten, choose which movie I will watch

in the afternoon.

As floods destroy towns

and a volcanic eruption with an impact

they say was larger than a nuclear bomb

lays waste small South Pacific islands,

a normal day, indoors,
with heat and food,

is not something
to be taken lightly.

I'm okay, though.
Thanks for asking.

No one knows, any longer, 

what tomorrow will bring.

I no longer take for granted

today's imperfect offering.

Inspired by Quarantine Poem # 17 by Norman Minnick. The italicized lines are his.