Shine
Thank you, woman in the dented Buick,
pulling up to me
in the lot at Stater Bros. Market,
as I was tying a bandana around my face.
Your braids piled high in a colorful scarf,
wedding-ringedhand
pulling a pair of latex gloves
from a diaper bag,
handing them to me out your window.
“Ya might want these.”
The rest of the day
I thought about the dark circles
under your eyes,
the photos of your daughter
on your dashboard,
and the way the sun
caught the gems in your dangling earrings,
making them sparkle
and shine.
____________
Daily Constitutional
She’s hunched over like a U-turn,
pushing her walker
down the deserted boardwalk.
Wrap around sunglasses,
pimped hoodie,
bling sweats,
polka-dot Nike’s
with glittering soles.
I adjust her mask,
grab another from my bag,
pull the straps over my head,
sunglasses covering
the rest of my face.
We walk past empty restaurants
and silent bars.
A congregation of gulls
have taken over the patio
of a popular fish joint.
She waves me over,
pointing at a tattooed man
in his underwear,
sprawled on a table,snoring.
I shake my head,
“Not my type, Margaret.”
The boats on the marina are still,
except for a yacht
blasting Margaritaville.
The smell of pot
hangs on the breeze.
A young couple approaches,
wearing backpacks,
bandanas covering their faces.
Spotting us,
they turn around,
disappear into the mist
rolling in from the ocean.
I look at my watch,
“Time for your pill, Marge.”
She grabs the prescription bottle from my hand,
tosses it over the railing,
pulls off her mask,
drops it in the sand.
“How ‘bout a cigarette instead?”
We sit on a bench facing the harbor.
The sun is a flaming orange ball
sinking into the ocean.
“My husband and I used to park the Eldorado
in that lot,
watch the sunset,
and screw for hours.”
Smiling, she takes a drag from her smoke.
“He had the windows tinted
so no one could see us.”
A flock of Canada Geese flies over our heads
in “V” formation.
The squawking so loud
we can barely hear our own shrieks.
Gaping, we watch them fly
into the fire ball,
escaping into a blood red sky.
____________
Hoarder’s Room of Shame
Had two shots of whiskey at 8:00 am
before waiting in line half an hour
to buy tuna and beans at Target.
Couldn’t wait to get home
and stack the cans in my dark little room.
My hoarder’s room of shame.
Alphabetized the beans,
built a castle
with water bottles
and toilet paper
next to the Campbell’s soup installation.
Couldn’t help myself,
took out my secret bottle of hand sanitizer,
unscrewed the top,
and inhaled the “Mountain Breeze.”
Nearly wet myself
when I scored a 40 lb bag of brown rice at Costco.
Dragged it into my den of degradation,
savoring the heftiness of my prize.
Watched the news last night.
Crops tilled under,
vats of raw milk poured down the drain,
pig killers infected,
processing plants closing.
People lined up
for twelve hours
in their cars
at food banks
that run out of food.
Nursing homes hiding bodies
in sheds.
Skating rinks turned into
morgues.
And I’m thinking I should’ve grabbed
that last flat of pork chops
at the market yesterday.
I fell asleep in my hovel of fear
and deprivation.
Dreamt about animal flesh
roasting in fire
inside of a pit
that led to a secret tunnel
connected to my hoarder’s room of shame.
Woke up to CNN blaring on the tube.
Between Cialis commercials
and death toll reports,
are plugs thanking
the essential workers.
No one gave a damn
about grocery store clerks,
bus drivers,
postal workers,
a month ago.
But now the people
who risk their lives
by going to their low-paying jobs,
are heroes,
while the rest of us
sit on the couch,
streaming Tiger King.
From my palace of toilet paper
and beans,
I watch crowds of people clapping
and cheering from balconies
all over the world.
A nurse on Zoom is shaking and crying.
“We’re all in this together”
the anchorman says,
his white teeth gleaming.
But thousands die alone everyday.
The poor are dying alone.
The old are dying alone.
The nursing home staff are dying alone.
Even doctors
who drive $100,000 sports cars
are dying alone.
I scan the headlines:
“FORMER LABRADOODLE BREEDER HEADS PANDEMIC TASK FORCE”
“TRUMP CLAIMS INJECTION OF LYSOL KILLS COVID-19”
This is not the apocalypse
I had hoped for.
Retreating into my echo chamber of rage
and doom,
I am counting the bottles of Jack Daniels
I bought at Costco,
stacking them next to
the stun gun,
the pepper spray,
and the baseball bat.
In my cave of foreboding,
my little hole of dread,
I fall asleep on a mountain
of triple-ply toilet paper,
dreaming about what will happen next
when the thin veil of civility
is finally flushed away.
____________
Real Men Don’t Wear Masks
The world pities us,
hog-tied,
gagged,
and saddled
with a cheap grifter
spreading a deadly virus.
Odd that a germophobe
who perpetually
washes his hands,
hates coughing,
has been on a campaign for years
to stop hand shaking,
would refuse to wear a mask
in the thick of a global pandemic.
Why the mixed messages?
Because real men take risks.
Real men revolt.
Real men are rugged individuals.
The rules do not apply to real men
-at least not the white ones-
Real men don’t wear masks.
Not to mention
his campaign promises,
infantile gibberish
about sweeping the country
of people of color,
and now
the poor,
the old.
Waking up this morning,
turning on the news,
pummeled by the daily rantings
of an unhinged derelict
tweeting conspiracy theories,
tantrums and quackery.
Unnerved at the grocery store
to see half the consumers
without masks.
Two men in a brawl
when one of their wives
asks the other to back up in produce.
One leaves
using his bandana to wipe the blood
streaming down his nose,
while the other screeches his pickup
throughthe parking lot,
bare-faced, fist shaking,
an American flag on his bumper.
Rattled at work
while rolling a wheelchair patient
throughher beach neighborhood.
A block party in progress.
Blonde hair and freckles laughing in the sunshine.
Tanned torsos,
barbequed chicken,
and volleyball in the street.
Pandemic?What pandemic, dude?
Fell asleep
in front of the tube.
Dreamt of a bug
invading host bodies,
multiplying and duplicating.
Its fanged mouths
suckling brains,
noshingon flesh.
Its tentacles milking scrotums,
invading vulvas,
starving hearts.
Woke up at midnight
to a special report.
Newscaster looking into the teleprompter,
“The world has loved, hated,
envied us.
And for the first time in history
the world pities us.
The world pities us.”
Rusty Truck 