Despite a flag of azaleas,
red, white and violet blossoms
caressing my eyes in the yard outside
I’m forced out of my usual sloth
by a wetted sky,
not tempted to sit inert any longer
beneath half-leaved tulip poplars
watching the yellow forsythia do
precisely nothing forty feet away
on every side from human contact.
Because April’s likely to shower all day
in Baltimore
beneath a crown of thunder,
I’m fated to return inside and work
at my one remaining task, sending out
whatever seems polished,
editing what’s not, and drafting first drafts
almost certain to make me uncomfortable
about my past, how much I don’t remember
and why.
As I head inside,
the neighbors laugh waving at their mixed lab
Quincy, who does not obey the six-foot rule
of social distancing, bumping my leg
before hitting the screen door
and sniffing our cat.
