I’m tired. Tired of my townhouse’s inner
walls. Tired of the onslaught. Exhausted with
my solitary life. I’m a sinner
after all. Wish this virus was a myth,
just another ugly Russian rumor.
It’s not. It’s a python crushing our globe,
dissolving our lungs, reeking rancid tumors
through our psyches. Time to drop my old robe,
step in the steaming shower. Relax and
recall my Higher Power’s the answer
to faith and sane action. Wash not just hands
but my whole body. Flex like a dancer.
Pray I’ll be lifted from this deep sorrow.
Trust the voice: “You’ll be all right tomorrow.”
Roger Armbrust
April 2, 2020
