Viral Trials

(during the time of Corona)

Freud wrote, “The unconscious doesn’t know death,
but as the loss of love.” That rings so true.
For it’s a passionately labored breath
that respirates among our forlorn crew.
I rue the close-knit people whom I’ve lost
to this eviscerating quarantine
we’re in. We’ll pay a devastating cost
emotionally, pending a vaccine
that lets the blood flow back into a world
on life support. No heartbeat stirs this street
that looks like an internment shroud unfurled
across a corpus wanting body heat.
My mind’s been transferred to intensive care
for those bereaved, since severed arteries
to downtown haunts are aching for repair.
Strong bonds are ruptured by this heart disease.
And even as societies convulse,
I’m at a loss to feel the slightest pulse.

Born and bred in New Jersey, Frank worked in New York for many years. He loves music from Bach to Amy Winehouse, World Music, Latin, opera. Shakespeare is his consolation, writing his hobby. Frank likes poets Dylan Thomas, Keats, Wallace Stevens, Frost, Ginsberg, and Sylvia Plath. Read other articles by Frank.