Masking Conditions
Coyotes lope down finance district streets,
as traffic signals cycle for no cars.
Nature advances as people retreat,
sequestering themselves behind closed doors.
The virus — from the Latin root for poison —
hangs in limbo between living and inert,
mirroring us in our isolation,
suspended, waiting for the world to restart.
Infected by apocalyptic nightmares,
feverish conspiracies gone viral,
we bleach our blood, build castles in the air
from pitch-black thunderhead denial
that there’s chaos in the fall of a sparrow,
that butterflies churn sunshine into snow.
Michael Waterson is a retired journalist with an MFA in poetry from Mills College. His varied career includes stints as a seasonal firefighter, taxi driver and wine educator. His work has appeared in numerous online and print journals, including California Quarterly, Santa Clare Review and The Road Not Taken. He is Poet Laureate Emeritus of Napa Valley where he resides.
Pulsebeat Poetry Journal 