Selected poems
20/20
1.
Not unlike a noirish film
or narrative by Kafka
the overcoats are at the door.
Urgers, thieves and murderers,
their only wish, to replicate.
They have no sexual desire
and, to their hosts, seem innocent,
digestible almost,
till suddenly they force the door —
or wait a while to be ingested,
to have their overcoat removed,
showing off a splendid genome
shining underneath.
From here on in, it’s all submission,
the host and hostess smiling wanly
until the virions appear.
Equipped with brand-new gabardine
and just a single notion
they head off, knocking, down the street.
Ah, Mr V, so nice to see you.
You’re looking good. Come in. Come in.
Do let me take your coat.
First the symptoms: fever, chill,
sore throat, headache, shortened breath,
a vanishing of taste and smell
and so the queueing for a test
A swab goes snaking up the nose;
perhaps another down the throat,
looking for the news.
Two days later, maybe three,
a phone call re-confirming
Name in Full and Date of Birth,
offering instructions with a
subtle hint of force.
You’re thinking of your demographic,
its sad percentages.
Two weeks at home alone with checks?
Or quick admission to the ward?
And thence to ICU?
Induced coma, intubation?
Will you join the half of those
who gratefully swim back sore-throated?
Or will it be this time for you
the Yes/No of eternity
long before you thought.
Soon, we’re told, there’ll be a million
dead around the world,
most of whom, we have to think,
failed to spot the aerosols
and droplets on the air.
And so, to some degree, we all
wear a worry in our pocket
waiting for the call.
3.
Once again we’re forced to think
about the ones who’ve kept us going,
doctors, nurses, nurses’ aides,
swallowing their fear and knowing
masks, however good,
can never be sufficient, those
who check each other’s PPE,
all suited-up as if they planned
a landing on the moon.
We think about the first responders
who see on any passing day
more than anyone should have to
though not the aerosols or droplets
wafting in the air.
We see once more the pharmacists
surrounded by their spruced assistants
who know a well-coiffed matron or
a liner-up for methadone
may pose an equal risk.
We’re noticing the checkout clerks
defended by a home-sewn mask
or sometimes just a smile
and so are somehow seeing too
the semi-trailer pilots who
remain alert on cruise control
hauling through the highway nights,
still a little spooked
when stopping to re-fuel.
And somewhere there the teachers,
confronting yet again
waiting faces wanting more
and careless of their sneezes.
And now, without intent, we thank
the ministers and politicians
who, randomly across the aisle,
discover in themselves
depths we hadn’t guessed were there.
Do the workers deemed ‘essential’
think about the ‘inessential’ —
the ones who work (or used to) at
enhancing life and not so much
its simple prolongation?
Hardly anyone