I’m not sure how to
be a poet in a plague.
I don’t know how to
describe the self-isolation
without sounding self-indulgent.
Those of us that are alone,
or alone in a crowded house,
surely don’t need me to characterize
how it feels, or should feel or
how to soothe the terror of our time.
A poet is supposed to quantify and
qualify these desperate times in
human history, to make some sense
out of it and turn it into art or song
or a warning for the generations to come.
I’m not that poet.
I’m sitting on a sofa, eating and drinking
more than I should, smoking and swearing,
more than I should. Yelling at politicians
on TV, at an acceptable amount.
I’m not the poet for the time.
I’m a Gen X poet, mad about the
shitty cards we were dealt but doing our
best to play with, and describing how that
has always made us feel like jerks. Smart ass jerks.
A poet in a plague.
Should have the capacity to eloquently
summarize these chaotic times into a succinct
few words or lines to which everyone can nod
in agreement to and say, “that sum’s it up, Mm-hm.”
I’m not that poet.
I’m not that guy.
Just stay safe and alive. Stay home and wash your hands.
And someday we’ll get back to complaining about what really
matters.
Probably baseball or something.
