The sun shines warmth into my home,
this prison of the heart, still
outside the biting air suffers hope.
Pandemic paralysis in winter
frozen from function and
feeling, like life in abeyance.
Immobility in this noble self
I once enjoyed, liberty
like libations in youth from bar-to-bar.
Now I wait, wondering if ever
again I’ll wander freely to and
from this home — I hate to think not.
Others, like soldiers firing into fog,
do so without mind to what such
actions may offend.
In their wake, unnamed heroes
bear death’s burden, and suffer
the rod of Asclepius.
Yet, the worse appears better when the
bearer of Caduceus, seeks fortune
and fame from plight.
The Tuque'd Shrew 