Omicronicity (a poem)

For some reason, the word diaspora popped into my head while I was driving on the freeway a couple of days ago. I replaced a couple of lines from a poem I wrote today, as they fit better in this one (and were better than the similar lines I originally wrote). And here I thought I was done writing covid poems…

How quickly the sons of the diaspora fall into confusion
when they fear losing
the manifest destiny their ancestors fought
to steal while they had the chance

The whole world’s against us—I swear to God…

How easily they turn to denial
when the weather turns relentless and vindictive—
cooking up a fury, then blasting the AC
and taking it too far each time—
not once bothering to turn on a fan
or crack open a window

And it’s still dying season out there
if you follow the news

…no estimated time for reopening…

Despite the latest maps turning as purple
as our collective bruising
we can’t help looking to be clobbered

Meanwhile, the showmen of the microscope
have extended their run

(13/15 January 2022)

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