Pandemic, Night (for Pos Moua)

The gardener has gone.
Rain lily drooping,
beloved shy grass
made it through miraculous winters,
lasting through the coldest months,
then turned yellow,
losing its last leaves.
There lay secret hope
life was
forever
and not just through
poems.

If this is the bird nest on the ground
lying sideways in the dirt
with nothing but fluff inside
where are the baby birds?
(those cotton balls on a
Japanese island?)

Mystery lettuce and spring onions sprung
from dead earth
grass roots
butterfly garden planted with
favorite teacher
old artichoke
new tomatoes
baby Myer lemon
Mandarin orange
Mandarin spoken at home--
sort of.

An old Wurlitzer arriving in time
almost missed the child
quarantined from child
then got her back
for Debussy
and baby trees.

I-ready?
You are not. You are missing
a to-be verb.
Your sunflower may be tall,
xgg123@mcsd.edu, but
Google Classroom
is not social media.
Class Dojo
will earn you no
belts.
We wear masks,
chalk driveways,
and facetime Ah Gong
with noodle magic,
forts and filters.

Is shortness of breath
a valid symptom
when it’s from
wearing a mask
rebreathing CO2
for over twelve hours?
Should I check myself into
the ER
after my shift?
Checked my oxygen saturation
after checking my patients’.
It was 100%
every time.
0% sympathy.

Where is the
loratadine?
Mother Nature
(deadly combination of all the
pissed-off Greek goddesses:
bereft mothers, jealous
wives, disrespected
warrior virgins) is
out for blood.

Flowers bloom everywhere,
laughing in the faces of
humans in masks.
The push mower misses
grassy middle fingers
and fifty baby trees.

If we all die,
a forest will form
overnight.

We shall return as
forest spirits
picked up by private Catbus
Totoro theme song playing
on cracked keys of
haunted pianos.