Corona claws your deep-fear door, a wily wolf sniffing for prey,
sick-snarly behind its lamb-meek facade.
It can't believe its luck - opportunistic thief
at the door, happy to find you home.
Funereal florist fashioning a coronal of funeral flowers,
its corona of white lily-light a stealthy disguise.
Never a halo, it sneers in the face of angels,
rams down a thorny crown.
It speaks in wheezy tones, spokes
turning in lungs. Its crazy-cogs churn your gut,
cranking up the fear-gears.
It's a killer following you home, fear-fingers
poised to sudden-circle your throat.
It's always a fevered climax when Corona comes,
tonguing your body in molten mania,
shuddering and sticky with sweat.
Corona rampages a supermarket sweep,
swipes it all with filching fingers. Demon of doorways,
it lurks in aisles and alleys, tenebrous terrorist
on the breeze of a sneeze; bodies for the taking.
And suddenly your night-silent street is a nightclub
of flashing blue lights, neighbours watching neighbours
carried out; tears behind blinds, stockpiled supplies
sent clattering by panic's hand
like pawns being swept from a chessboard.
They're pawns in a game they don't understand.
There's nothing to salvage but life
as Corona has another roll of the death-dice.
Copyright © Charlotte Puddifoot | Year Posted 2020