T-45 Contagion by Ron L. Dowell

A new reality, my poet’s community
departs Kaprielian Hall, displaced home, sweet home
logs-on Lenovo/Apple/HP/Dell laptops, Zoom.
My comfort regarding familiar screen faces

voices, support, a vaccine, & fortress we’ve built
against the Trumprona-45 virus.
COVID-19 pneumonia kills like shit stinks
a spawning virus, fluid-filled lungs inflame

bleed, drown—when Liberty can’t breathe
U.S.N.S. Comfort sails N.Y.C. subways.
Trumprona-45 contagion smothers reason
mines fear’s depth, we backstroke toxic swamps of lies

Donald J. Trump’s hiss hollows me
his virulence, like swindlers, sidle up
to travelers      armchair quarterbacks.
Dreading deadly colds, flu, I shudder, afraid

like when first I cringed 13 Ghosts, horrified
& later, The Exorcist. I blocked Trump’s Twitter
social-distanced his bloody hands.
T-45 infects white supremacist

& retrograde zombies—infest red-hat toad-eaters
who worship cracked mirror images
will leap cliffs, strap on parachutes
at Trumprona-45’s guiltless command

when he butchers thousands trudging
Fifth Avenue, their jury exonerates him.
Freedom and democracy are under siege.
I wash my hands, write lines, stay, spray & pray.

Image credit: Lorie Shaull

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