An Ode to Life Mid-Virus

Summer’s on hold, Lo! C19

We douse in soap and chug caffeine

There’s much amiss this age, tis clear

To see the rate we slosh our beer.

 

But oh, the Gods! You whine and moan

Off and off on masks you drone

And lament the loss of paper scrubs

For cleansing tushie backside rubs.

‘Masks don’t work!’ you now decry

‘You say to wear them, I ask why!’

And on and on you whinge and thrum

About your mask and poor, wet bum.

 

The pantry doors now flex and bow

Prepped for months with sauce and dough

There our starchy treasures sat

As Postmen placed goods our mat.

We cooked and cleaned (and filled the cup!)

Until our taprooms open up.

 

And hey, the months, they now drag on -

Now cooking’s dull, the zest is gone

With Pop-tarts, pizza in our hands

And sodas on our bedtime stands

With fries and chips and ale in tow

We shluff into a streaming show

And spend an hour that turns to six

Watching gameshow games and bakers mix.

 

We peer into our amber glass

And all at once the worlds’ a gas!

Those Lucky Charms are a feast

And oatmeal pies - five stars, at least!

Now vodka sodden mac and cheese

With pockets HOT (that won’t unfreeze)

With suds in hand and buttocks docked

And crumbs on deck and feet one-socked

Upon our couch alone we sprawl

Till’ beer for beer, to bed we crawl.

 

Then Lo! The sun again will ape

And light across your skin will scrape.

Your hair yet sleeps as bodies rise –

Your face says 'weary,' your mane 'SURPRISE!'

Now coffee'd up, you look outside

And up the stairs again you glide

And slip into your finest wear –

Leggings here, a sports bra there

A tank top on, underpants... perhaps

But Spanx to tame those belly flaps!

And spray enough (or near) to tame

Your scraggle of a lion’s mane

With glasses, lip gloss off you slip

With a mask for coffee drip.

And at eleven, now with perk

You sit down at home and start to work

And add your boss to conference Zoom

And stare into a pixel gloom.

 

...and that calls for another beer!

And this continues a month, a year.

And ‘round we go with soap and mask

And whiskey in our pocket flask.

 

“I’ll grab some fresh stuff from the market –

Drive the car(?!?) and then I’ll park it –

Don the gloves, Purrell and mask

And promptly do my shopping task!”

 

“I’ll stride into the shop,” you think

“And grab the food (and obvs – the drink!)

And wade into the grimy crowd

Where masks aren’t ‘required,’ more ‘allowed.’"

And as you pass the people hack

And blow and cough and wheeze and yack.

 

And this is where the plan went south –

The nightmare – an uncovered mouth.

“Fuck  this day and month and year!” you think -

Instead I’ll have another drink.

 

-fin-