"Risky Business"
The line to my hip supermarket snaked forever,
but was friendly.
No sign of anyone leaning even slightly right,
let alone center.
The man with the bullhorn called out,
"Anyone over 60 please go to the front."
Astonished, I broke into full vocal drum n' bass,
the younger folks mildly amused.
No more than two people's presence for weeks.
Restless dreams of raining viral droplets,
toxic sun,
what book to bring,
bare shelves and testy employees.
Now, strangely familiar,
an unexpected and bedazzling display
of politically correct decadence.
Thanking every employee I saw,
profusely,
Hoping to somehow
double their hazard pay
or magically protect them.
I shopped for a month,
guiltily, but responsibly.
Slowing my pace,
the shopping cart felt
heavier and heavier.
As if a sumptuous Thanksgiving Feast
had over taken me.
Eventually, gliding myself with cart in tow
down the ramp to my waiting car.
Relieved, though puzzled —
quarantining unquarantined food into a
quarantined car ?
No sink, no germ angels circling above,
only my strangely familiar
family history to guide me —
Disinfect and re-bag each item,
as if I had always been a
germ warrior !
Fellow shoppers passing me by.
Swinging between sane and
way left of center.
Memories of Mom,
trapped between
mania and depression,
obsession and compulsion.
Frantically cleaning each item
from her shopping —
every can, every box, every package —
Flashed before me,
at this public,
private moment.
Little did we know that her world
would become
our world.
March 2020
