Across clear street from my writing-room view
a woman in blouse and shorts walks a dog.
Ten feet behind, her mate in medic blues
pushes an infant stroller. Why I log
their passing? Longing for human contact,
I guess, though my distant silence matches
their silence. I’ve just read a list of facts:
attacks on press freedom. How Big Bro tracks
reporters in secret. I’ve opened my
windows to this 70s breeze, still sense
stench of yesterday’s asphalt paving. Try
on my facemask, walk out to the intense
day. I’ve had it with pandemic stories.
The sun blesses trees and lawns with glory.
Roger Armbrust
April 21, 2020
