Spring, 2020 by Peter Crowley

Spring raises its rabbit ears and goes blind.
A blind beggar coughs lyrics through his shoes
The passerby winces, hugging the sidewalk’s edge
The arm is the repository site for depositing corona
Side roads are golden, filtered from
the many desolate people who choke up the bike path –
side roads are the antithesis: post-nuclear Armageddon, 
noiseless vacancy, though, eerily, all the cars are home

Spring raises its rabbit ears and goes blind.
One morning in spring, when the yellow bird sings
And how it sings, 
Yes, how it sings…
It sings for the doctors who live in overcrowded
hospitals for three weeks and if they get 
a private moment, cry to themselves,  
It sings for the nurses without N95 masks
likely to contract corona but flinch not,
It sings for the mailwoman delivering envelopes 
that 50 other hands have touched, and opening  
thousands of potentially diseased mailboxes
It sings for the Amazon delivery driver who, 
on minimum wage, meets the virus at warehouse
and homes, but has no health insurance

Spring raises its rabbit ears and goes blind
Just like that, the rabbit lost its vision
And just like that, the lyric-coughing beggar
fell to the ground, hitting his head on wet sidewalk
And just like nothing, the sun became lazy, 
refusing to wake up in the morning
And just like nothing, the cloud vomited thick phlegm 
And just like nothing, muscle ache turned to
slight fever to full blown pneumonia and gasping
for breath – ventilators hid in an eternally becoming state

Through it all, 
will the yellow bird continue to sing?

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