as we retreat to our homes (those lucky to have them),
stock up on what we think we’ll need—toilet paper,
hand sanitizer, flour, beans—begin to understand
what it means to hunker down. In public, try out
social distancing: smile, nod, nervous, wonder
is this six feet? when what we want is to embrace
every service person we meet: the efficient,
masked bagger at QFC, the weary pharmacist,
the stoic neighbor hobbling up the street.
The world now in our living room
and we watch in disbelief as bodies stack up
on nightly news, as doctors in Italy must choose
whose life to save. Meanwhile our phones beep
the rising Covid-19 count for our county,
new guidelines for gathering, from 250 to 50
to 10 in a week. Then tonight, on the news,
watch those exiled on ancient iron balconies,
the last common space, join their voices, reach across
what little divides—to fill the death-drenched air
with song: rock, arias, and last, their national anthem.
And from our living room, an ocean and a continent
away, we hear a voice, our own stubborn belief
in the human species, despite all the ways
we’ve bungled it, rise above the fear,
the uncertainty, the despair—join in.
—March 18, 2020