corona 5.

in this version of America
a girl in a yellow sweater bee bright
against black hair stands on a stage
the first day of spring
as photographers adjust lights
and microphones waiting
for the turgid man to squat bellow
thick tongued and vile
and attack the press corps

in this version of America
my son and I eat Sunday breakfast
every morning at the kitchen table
and the first day of spring streams
in cold sun and roses open
and cherry trees carry on unperturbed

in this version of America
we are all grieving each day a funeral
as every sparkling proud city closes its ears
puts on blindfolds holds its breath
and descends to its maximum depth

in this version of America
my son and I eat with only the ticking
of the wind up clock
the stunning sense of Equinox
against our voices as we plan the hours
place cloth napkins on our laps
his sky sky blue
mine zinnia orange