A poem by Mike Zonta, H.W., M.
O, my Corona
You embrace me too tight.
I need to inspire
A lower form of intelligence
always responds to a higher form,
Our Sadah once said.
If I am the higher, let me just say:
You are holding us all too tight!
If you kill your hosts, your hosts will kill you.
It’s the Golden Rule or something like that.
Being is not a competition. It’s a right.
You are like the panicked buyer
hoarding toilet paper as if it were more valuable
You are as panicked as we are, if a virus can be panicked.
You are on a worldwide procreation orgy, getting as much as you can for as long as you can, panicked that it will all run out (’cause it will).
You have us all obedient as slaves,
standing in line, 6 feet apart.
Don’t come too close, don’t trust the stranger, don’t touch your face. And, God, don’t touch anybody else’s face.
They might have it.
We all might have it.
We all do have it.
But your orgy will end.
And the world will return to normal once again.
The mob will retreat and we’ll all smile at each other a little sheepishly, having forgotten who we are.
And we’ll tell our grandchildren about the great Corona.
My great Corona.