If the last four years were hell
the next four will be worse.
The establishments not satisfied
with anyone satisfied. Whoever
can stomach it must be rich. I am
sifting through white crystals
for old chunks now. We dump
what we must, our masks in
the wash with the comforter,
rooms still frigid in the morning
before the sun drives its way
to work. We’re home now, clocked
in nothing doing, worried for
the cat, the cupboards. He is not
eating and the vet won’t see him,
we don’t see the vet. This is the
process, the distance, the drape,
the bandana. Peep our filthy
hands. We no longer need them.

(originally published in Dreich Magazine, Summer 2021)