Poet in a Plague

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.