Of course there is a live broadcast
of the poet sitting behind his cluttered desk
beside a window, Strunk and White,
or is that Spunk and Bite, propped up
literally over his shoulder. Literally.
And I, for the love of God,
cannot write a single line
without misspelling a word
or forgetting the stanza form
I am hoping to capture.
He just laughs and says,
“Be well.” And the world,
hunkered down like in the age
of Blitzkrieg or Sherman, again
sits silent awaiting his return.
I, then, mull over what it means
to write something of value,
something about love in
the age of COVID or why
our dog thinks he is royalty.
He being the dog, the Min-Pin,
who barely escaped the lethal
dose and found his way to ruling
our world, jealous only of the poet
and the toddler who take my time.