by Don Two
About having been living under a rock.
|There was not much room,
and I have lost forty pounds.
I sought the illumination of sun
one day, so I clawed my way out
from beneath my igneous rock.
Excuse my dirt; my white beard
is soil-filled, moist moss as well.
The huge rock I leave behind
sits on the edge of a ravine;
set deep within the ground,
it presses roots gnarled taut.
I, like a mole, had tunneled
sideways to abide beneath.
So now I walk a gravel road
and see new houses through
the woods, then I come upon
the main highway before long.
Yet how bereft of vehicles it is!
Oh slimy me, my eyes loam-
filled, my clothes threadbare,
and I a living sight unseemly.
The sun sands raw my pale
neck with rays of ultraviolet.
Before I have walked far,
I come upon a gas station,
yet it is not the Shell Station
that I remember being there.
Some customers inside, yet they
act grim and keep apart as if they
are afraid. And some are wearing
masks too! Then as they eye me,
there is a collective gasp; looks
to kill, reactions such as if I reek—
living under a rock, I guess I do.
On the TV screen, in the corner,
news of something called Corona
Virus: infection, death, States in red
and shortages as pleas go out from
everywhere. I need to catch up on
the news, brush mud from my cuffs.
Writer’s Cramp Winner