Poems of the Week

Song in a Time of Coronavirus

by Bruce Bennett

Tra la Tra la
Go wash your hands.
Don’t touch your face.
If someone stands

Too near, report them.
Sweet birds sing.
Keep windows open.
Happy Spring!

Disbarred

by Brian Allgar

This damned Coronavirus gets me down!
The pubs and bars are closed all over town.
There must be one still open! Let me think …
To do that, though, I really need a drink.

He’s Not Gonna Take It

by Chris O’Carroll

“I don’t take responsibility at all.”
Donald Trump

The press says nasty things about the virus.
Why do they think the buck should stop with me?
My answer to whatever they inquire is
That I don’t take responsibility.

I’m unconcerned about the nation’s health,
Or deaths among your friends and family.
I watch the Dow, I dream about great wealth,
And I take no responsibility.

This is the art I bring to every deal.
Let’s blame the Chinese this time. Don’t blame me.
Whatever pain you suffer, I can’t feel.
I never take responsibility.

Stable Genii

by Julia Griffin

“Arnold Schwarzenegger and his tiny horses urge people to stay home …
[in a Twitter video] featuring the actor and two pets, miniature horse Whiskey and donkey Lulu…”

The Guardian

Poster boys for prudent courses,
Calming as a metronome,
Arnold and his tiny horses
Urge the nation: Please stay home.

If you’re feeling rather wonky,
If you’ve got the virus scare,
Gaze at Arnold’s dinky donkey
Nuzzling his midget mare,

And absorb their wise advices
(They endorsed what Arnie said):
Outside’s nice but twice as nice is
Watching things like this in bed.

Redis-cov-ery

by Nora Jay

The value of the moral life
Grows clear as we grow antsier.
Best not Covid your neighbor’s wife,
However much you fancy her.

We May Get Out of This Yet

by Dan Campion

“Florida governor calls out spring breakers for ignoring coronavirus warnings”
—Fox News

“If I’m curt with you, it’s because time is a factor.”
—Harvey Keitel as The Wolf in Pulp Fiction

While certain types binge-watch old soaps
Or Nature Channel antelopes,
And bookish sorts sit reading Poe,
Mann, or—my man—Boccaccio,
All hunkered down as they’ve been told,
I note—and I don’t like to scold—
You bunch of jokers fail to heed
The Covid guidelines. Thus you breed
A virulence you oughtta fear,
But risk it all to swill some beer
And hook up on a crowded beach.
You should be swabbing knobs with bleach.
You’ve got no concept of disease!
Exert some caution. Pretty please.

Quarantine Quatrain

by Christopher Scribner

This poem is not contagious;
it need not be evaded—
my antivirus software
was recently updated.

We Regret to Inform You That March Is Canceled

by Anna M. Evans

We’ve canceled March. There’ll be no sport;
Broadway’s dark; most classes taught
will be online; at Disneyland
the gates are locked; large groups are banned
from gatherings of any sort.

The shops are bare because you’ve bought
your toilet paper. Now, you’re fraught,
keeping your distances, as planned.
We’ve canceled March.

Each cough is evidence you’ve caught
the virus! Each fresh news report
alarms you. Still, we’ve made our stand—
this plague can’t get the upper hand—
so we’ve invoked our last resort
and canceled March.