Three days ago you were at my house, 

observing the faulty dishwasher, 

patiently deducing the cause of the 

brown gunk building up inside.

Care-full. Loving. Daddy.

—

Today, I am in the shower

Right hand presses soap suds 

down the curve of my waist

“Your mom called. We have to go.”

I still need to put oil on my skin. 

—

I sit in the passenger side front seat,

the phone pressed to my head. 

495 is faster these days. 

Spelling aloud:  “N as in Nancy. 

V as in Victor,” like you used to do. 

—

It’s bitter but my coat is too warm. 

Hospitals all over-capacity. The surge. 

A black fence bi-sects the apron lawn.

I lean on it and answer a call. 

Your brother is crying in Goa.  

—

Texts flow like ants at a picnic. 

Most of them don’t matter. 

I still read them all:

“Mom needs a snack.”

“Where’s the medical directive?”

“Call your senator!”

—

Sick people treated in the hall,

beds outside your room. 

The new nurse has long black hair 

pulled into a braid, apple cheeks. 

Her smile is warm behind the mask. 

—

You are asleep. I need a bed. 

Mom’s car is unfamiliar

I drive without headlights. 

No cars on the road at midnight. 

This time, we dodged the bullet.