Lockdown Poetry


Excepting an all-night globe
palely burning
the corridor at 5 A.M.
was dark
but for my iridescent shoes
and a ribbon of light
under the door
three rooms away
where a flush choked
and swallowed
as I strode past
in silence
not knowing
this poem is for
the interrupted-sleeper or
early-riser who
also perhaps was 
observing the curfew 


Scuff marks shimmering on the footstool.
Still water in a glass. 
The soundless TV in liquid black and white.
Somewhere, an infant's cry.
Rhythmic and fleeting.
As if the 8 o'clock sky has harvested it for dew.
I close the August windows and read Hawthorne
nearly weeping for his heroine, and think:
what good fortune to be so happy
we can mourn these imaginary lives.