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If I Die, Bury Me With Pencils

My sense of smell is gone.
Acetone is empty air.

The cough
attempts to cut the mucus from my lungs,
expell it from my lungs.

The fibers of the swab penetrated my flesh,
cotton against capillaries;
armies clashed with red and white blades;
sent to Jefferson City,
results unknown for 48 hours
to week.
But, doctor expects it to be
positive.

The x-rays
did not look good. 

“Go home.”
“Quarantine.”
“Hydrate.”
“Call 911 at first sign of trouble breathing.”
“Things go downhill fast.”

Mortality rate of intubation of covid cases in New York City is 80%
Obesity increases mortality rate. 

I wait for my test,
almost breathless,

but not yet.

Crossing my bedroom floor, I look down
and find an unopened package of papermate mechanical pencils,
the school bus yellow kind,
with the good erasers,
and the turning tip with the spinning spring inside that jockeys the graphite out,
perfect for drawing, writing, geometric constructions,
all the things that free the soul,
all the things where anything is possible,
where good and life flow sunlight

and lungs are worlds away.

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