only melodic harp sounds
through iphone earbuds, this
mixed with running water
and soap, my evening
meditation, where grease and
life dissolve in smooth
towel strokes, most nights
i can feel heart
breathing inside, as fingers
cradle cups, plates, pans
i imagine each one
a delicate life, serving
the world, this humble
sink servant, these nothing
moments of pure peace
these evenings I stay up
late, just to see what has
accumulated during quarantine
days, overabundant family
time, the same dog walks
over and over, this darkened
hour is the only quiet space
without Zoom, or TikTok,
Netflix, or email invading
every minute, here I am
again, pretending to write
poems, freedom disguised
as ink words on a page
often the best response
is to give up
abandon all hope of
truly knowing how the
acorn becomes a tree
it just does, and
one day that barked
branched swaying nature
will topple, call it age
or disease, shifting roots
or unsteady ground, but
this too will just happen
and yet, we try so hard
to control all of life
when really, clinging
tightly is like pretending
a summer storm isn’t
made of rain, at some point
we all get wet
nada nothing zilch
absence of all
form, invisible blank
space, that void
empty of everything
vacant desert, arid
dry heaves, alone
in this brain
without thoughts, vast
darkness between stars
and in the midst
of this uncertainty, as
time stands still in
houses, on streets where
dogs are walked five
times a day, and
women, men, wear masks
to stop the virus
within all this, i
sit next to my
son’s slumber and feel
only peace and calm
because this is our
moment, and all is
quiet, and the world
only exists right now
what are memories?
a skipping stone
under layers of
silt, bottom of
this primordial riverbed
water rushing over
unaware that time
has passed, soon
all is forgotten
i’m not trying to write a good poem
this is just playful, holding a flashlight,
watching words appear on a page like
reading The Hobbit as a kid, and i can
do this, sometimes pausing to notice
shadows where dark becomes light,
a bright circle, where meaning emerges,
my handwriting, this timeless universe,
in quiet night
i work for
the new york
times, or politico
or fox, or
cnn, or any
of the flat
screened word factories
that exist to
educate, speculate, divide
conquer the masses
fixated on their
iphones, ipads, laptops
so we guess
about escalating death
rates, about what
has already gone
wrong, and all
the things we
still don’t know
about ventilators and
arrogant millennials, and
west virginians who
are not impacted
by our hysteria
but we keep
typing and posting
because we must
capitalize on all
the eyeballs stuck
at home, sheltering
in our sentences
and photos, following
our every word
about economy on
the brink of
massive global recession
and when this
finally ends, how
many lives will
we take, who
will count the
minutes that were
spent reading and
reading, and scrolling
hours of time
we robbed from
the worried, who
should’ve known better
-Author’s note: I’m 100% in favor of citizens staying informed about the news regarding COVID-19, however, I do believe that we need to carefully monitor how much time we spend endlessly reading articles that serve to churn up further worry and speculation.
we talk about buying wetsuits
and surfing, all the things
said and never done, like
reading the Bible cover to cover
these stories journey with
us year after year like so many
unread Shakespeare plays, tragedy
our romantic viewpoint, these
lies we tell ourselves, all the
constellations never named, but
with luck we still see some light
in darkened sky, so when we
leave this earth, we don’t have
to ask, why? why?
is worried about the economy
and about the virus and
how the two are connected
about cruise ships that
sail sick people in their midst
and so, day after day
men in suits, women with lipstick
grin or frown into cameras, on
screens, talk about stocks
descending, and this goes on
and on, day after day, as we
watch quarantines, death counts
following along, witnessing
global pandemic with a smile
and a grimace
Daniel W. Polk 