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
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