day TWELVE HUNDRED and TWENTY SIX

quarantine blues

there are

at least half a dozen neighbors

whom i’d send to slaughter

when this virus is gone

the guy who talks on his phone

in front of my living room window

the guy who washes his car to bass

and the guys who rev their motorcycles

who look more like bankers on furlough

than hell’s angels

the old italian man who screams all afternoon

in his pigeon english

to the guy with the prick-jock face

who buzz saws in his van

a brand-new enemy list

for a band new normal

the governor says

we have to practice patience and empathy

if we’re going to get out of this

but the governor doesn’t have pot-head joe

blowing weed into his kitchen window

at seven in the morning

while he shouts to his buddy

(a self-social distance away)

blasting heavy metal in his car

a contact high for sure

i’d like to make some contact

brew up some toxic masculinity at its finest

but there’s so many dead here

all i can do is shout from the window

and stew in my own juices

start drinking the minute the sun tilts

in the chemical sky

daydream my old life

while the couple in matching surgical masks

let their kick-me dog drop a deuce

in front of my living room window

a steaming pile of shit

that they won’t pick up

as they binge-watch tv on their phones

at max volume

like they’re the only two people in brooklyn

trying to make something of a day out of this mess

this polluted

and disease-riddled world.

--John Grochalski