There lives an orange man

in a big white house

who says the color of this virus is


I'm yellow;

my son is yellow;

now I feel something other than guilt

when we step outside,

I wish it wasn't so,

I wish I didn't worry,

I wish the world wasn't so scary,

"Flatten the curve," they keep saying;

"Stay at home," I've been told,

we will get through this, I know,


I hear voices of those who claim,

"It's just a flu!"

Laughing as they sing and shout,

"You drama queen, you!"

Are they going to be one of

the sick or the old

or the doctors and nurses,

the inevitable two percent,

who fall victim to this "cold?"

I hope not, I really don't,


numbers don't lie,

people will die,

people have died,

this virus has no color,

it travels sight unseen,

it belongs to all of us,

an entire human race,

we can't outrun our fate;

I am no expert,

but I do know

fear and hate

aren't the vaccine;

There's no need to panic,

no need to hoard

twenty gallons of milk

or stock up on

a pantry full of TP...

We'll get through this,

we will, we will!

In the meantime,

to pass the time—

I guess

I'll bunker down,

read a book,

or write a poem,

and then go wash my hands

about a hundred times more.