From Picture to Page: When They Come to Cure

Had to go out yesterday for a supply run. Had some thoughts. Took this picture while thinking them. Sometimes it's just as simple as that, at least at first. This went further than I could have imagined. I think I'm subconsciously practicing to write nonsense for National Poetry Month.

When They Come to Cure

Someday your cousin's
children's children,
blonde Republican sons
each and every one of them,
will point and ask,
Why didn't you 
set your poetry on fire
during the pandemic?

All you'll remember
is long walks in rain,
searching for anything
that wasn't Ibuprofen.

And your ex-girlfriend's
children's children will say,
No! You had no problem,
and ample opportunity
to start an inferno 
inside all of our homes!
So why didn't you
set your poetry on fire
during the pandemic! 

You will try to say,
even if you still used
paper, it was never contagious.

Then your friend's son's
grandson will call in
remotely to say,
Your ideas are disease!
Killing your mother 
one unread line at a time!
So why, why, did you not
have the courage 
to set your poetry on fire
during the pandemic?!?

And finally, you will
remember how trials
used to end where you live,
with smoke to adjourn
the onlookers, and how
forgiveness happens only
after everything burns.