by Nora Jay

“The university town of Lund in Sweden is to dump a tonne of chicken manure in its central park in a bid to deter up to 30,000 residents from gathering there for traditional celebrations to mark Walpurgis Night on Thursday.”
—The Guardian

In scholarly Lund, there’s a whiff in the air
Of danger (and more, to be sure):
Are you up for spooks and a medical scare,
Or are you too chickenmanure?

—Punta del Este, Uruguay

by Catherine Chandler

A pride of lions lounges on a street
in Africa, while I sit here inside,
hobnobbing with my little parakeet.

She chatters as I Instagram and tweet.
We seem to take the quarantine in stride.
In Wales, as gangs of goats invade a street,

I FaceTime, bake, clean, sleep and overeat.
In gazing seaward from my glorified
Bastille, I doubt my little parakeet

is happy with her cage, her millet treat
and cuttlebone. I bet she’d rather ride
the wind. As Thai macaques dash down a street

Jumanji-esque, and screaming peacocks meet
in empty squares in Ronda, Spain, I bide
my time. At least my little parakeet,

free from this government-imposed retreat,
may leave. And though I never thought that I’d
release my little lime-green parakeet,
away she flies above Artigas street!

by Ruth S. Baker

I fear I have a covert case of COVID:
An incubus I find I can’t shake off.
My eyes, reflected in this screen, look mauvèd;
Each time I think about a cough, I cough.

My mind is just careening from Corona;
The markets of Wuhan seem very near,
And though I’m more sequestered than was Jonah,
I’ve somehow caught this awful thing—I fear.

by Bruce Bennett

“By mixing compounds from garlic, citrus and other additives into a pellet that’s mixed with a cow’s regular diet, the start-up [called Mootral] has surprised scientists by significantly and consistently cutting the toxic output of animals like Peaches [the cow].”
—The New York Times

Let’s hear it for Mootral. They’re onto a way
to cut down on methane. There may come a day
when Peaches won’t belch, and the world will be free
from gas that is noxious. From cows. Not from me.

by Julia Griffin
(sheltering in southeast Georgia)

I

“Gyms, hair salons, bowling alleys and tattoo parlors: Georgia Gov. Brian Kemp says
some shuttered businesses can reopen Friday … as long as owners follow strict
social-distancing and hygiene requirements.”
—The Chicago Tribune

This week, at last! Our jolly Georgia jokers
Have opened up the state. We say three cheers!
We’re free to be tattooed with 6-foot pokers,
Or get a trim from pristine garden shears.

II

I’m doing my best to preempt
Critiques of my styling attempt:
Though usually Georgia’s
The home of the gorgeous,
These days we are safer unKempt.

by Bruce Bennett

—after Dorothy Parker … and despite Donald J. Trump

Rays can cause cancer.
Bleach makes you sick.
Lysol’s the answer?
That kills you quick!
Hydroxychloroquine’s
fatal, like lye.
All ways, the virus wins.
Might as well die.

by Dan Campion

“I have instructed the United States Navy to shoot down and destroy any and all Iranian gunboats if they harass our ships at sea.”
—A tweet from President Donald J. Trump

Sir, be advised: no gunboats fly.
They’re darn hard to “shoot down.”
We could, I guess, aim for the sky,
Though gunner’s mates may frown;

They’re more accustomed, sir, to aim
Directly at their foe.
So please you, if it’s all the same,
At gunboats, we’ll shoot low.

by Philip Kitcher

Today the store is empty-ish, and everyone is masked.
We push our carts politely, and we step aside when asked.
Although the shelves are sparsely stocked, they now have flour at least
But no yeast.

The fish is plainly past its best, the dairy case is bare,
The produce is depleted—will we have to live on air?
Two boxes of spaghetti need to last three nights … or four …
Maybe more … ?

I’m starting to grow desperate, I’m almost out of time.
Perhaps I’ll make a pasta sauce from okra and a lime?
No garlic, no tomatoes—I find just one can of beans
And no greens.

Supplies are looking meager as I reach the liquor aisle
And there behold a vision sure to make a shopper smile.
I grab a case of red and then I join the checkout line.
We’ll be fine.

by Bruce Bennett

I used to only lose my gloves.
I now can’t find my mask.
Life’s pushes have turned into shoves.
I’m not up to the task

Of daily living in these days
of chaos and of strife.
It’s possible it’s just a phase,
but please! Don’t ask my wife.

by Alex Steelsmith

In 430 BC, Thucydides contracted and survived the Plague of Athens, which killed an estimated 75,000 to 100,000 people. According to Wikipedia, he “developed an understanding of human nature to explain behavior in such crises as plagues…” and “has been dubbed the father of ‘scientific history.’”

Wikidy sickedy
Father Thucydides
lived through, and wrote of, a
virus from hell,

though he was said to have
multimorbidities
and, scholars tell us, no
hoard of Purell.

by Katherine Barrett Swett

April snow
Will quickly go.
Like children’s tears
It disappears.
There’s fast relief
For this small grief.

by Chris O’Carroll

Now that he’s not holding rallies,
How can we express defiance
Of the social distance rules that
Denigrate our self-reliance?

Democrats are nanny-staters
Who arouse our indignation.
Let’s breathe on each other at an
Anti-lockdown demonstration.

When he contradicts the science,
That’s a message to inspire us.
He’s a president to die for.
In your face, coronavirus.

by Alex Steelsmith

“Lt. Gov. Josh Green today questioned a controversial plan to release low-risk jail inmates
to try to block the spread of the new coronavirus… telling state senators that…
‘prison is safer than Costco.’”
—The Honolulu Star-Advertiser

Waiting in line at the popular megastore,
six feet apart, we have reason to sulk;
everyone knows they are all out of Charmin, but
Covid-19? You can get it in bulk.

by James Hamby

To those upon whose backs this country’s built:
We bourgeoisie are feeling loads of guilt;

So, sorry for your barely-living wage,
The times your unions made us rant and rage;

For no time off for sickness or to grieve,
And never giving you parental leave;

For fighting all your bids for better care
(That one seems big now, guess you got us there).

So grocery store workers, one and all,
And farmers, servers, janitors, stand tall!

Today, our heroes, we give thanks to you!
(But we’ll forget it all when this is through).

by Paul Willis

After a month of sheltering in place,
you’d think we’d finally have the guts to face
the possibility of illness, death—
dry coughing, burning lungs, the loss of breath.
But no, the most important thing for us
is who beat whom in Scrabble—all the fuss
of triple-word scores, arcane spellings, where
the Qs and Zs and Xs might prepare
their owners for decisive victory.
So we distract ourselves, so nightly we
persist by thinking numbers of the dead
could not call up our number, leave unsaid
the randomness of letters we may draw—
all vowels, all consonants stuck in our craw—
forgetting the grim reaper soon may spell
our way to heaven or our way to hell.
But what, I pray, is the alternative?
To watch the news incessantly? To live
as if the plague were all we have of life—
press briefings, experts, presidential strife?
I say, Play on. I say, What is the score?
The game is over. Let’s play one game more.