From far away,
they look like a Monet--
dabs of green and yellow
without edges.
Up close, I see the leaves
are still curled. The way
they press further into the air each day,
from every branch, reminds me--
some things continue.
But not underground.
The MTA is cleaning the subway,
halting the trains
from one to five each morning--
trying to kill a virus.
The cleaners, in astronaut suits,
are on a mission
fit for Sisyphus:
New York is people
sharing germs--
standing-room only
at the ballet,
boozing in stadiums,
riding crowded elevators,
schmoozing—elbow to elbow--
at bistros,
transformed now
to a deadly cesspool.
THE CITY IS CANCELED.
Only a vaccine
can make it return.
Author Bio:
Jacqueline Coleman-Fried is a poet and essayist living in Tuckahoe, NY, a suburb of New York City. She mourns the loss of the city's cultural life, which requires people to mix freely in spaces conducive to spreading coronavirus.