The Madness of 2020
I fold between blankets like a broken accordion.
No more music in this darkened room– my own
cacophony pierces this throbbing skull. I imagine my life
becoming more like the acid trip my dad once described to me,
slipping in and out of my doctor’s prescription bottle
of the week and all the pretty bottles in a row.
If I squint through tears, I can see a hazy garden of marigolds.
My laughter, warped and weary, even hurts inside this madness.
Distant voices split time - a scientist on t.v. talks about origins
of this disease. The president blames the Chinese, scientists
blame the bats. I blame no one, not even my foolish neighbors
with their karaoke street parties. I’m tired of this hot, new show
called the blame game.
I have my own recycled show, the worried mother.
(Wash your hands again, don’t forget your mask, and above all else,
please social distance) Stay tuned!
Anxiety swells in my chest and rises up to beat against my skull. No escape -
wild horses gallop down cerebral highways trying to reach the shoreline
where all the beautiful people cackle, mouths uncovered,
droplets mingling with the ocean’s spray.
I do not fear the avant-garde colors flashing peripherally,
the pounding beats behind my eyes, or death itself.
I do fear dying alone behind a mask.
Written 5/22/20 for Craig’s 2020 Poetry Contest
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2020
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