QUARENTINE MOON

The barbershop is closed so I gave myself a haircut with expected results.  I don’t have the courage for a buzz cut, what we used to call a burr in elementary school.  Back then the only kids unfortunate enough to have burrs were the poor ones.  Like the kid on my country bus route who ate a raw potato everyday for lunch as if it was a Honeycrisp apple. 

The water truck returned and with it the birds.  All day I watch parrots cruise past my window like green comets.  That they are the same ones Frida kept as pets in Mexico amazes me.  That this place is more different from Mexico than any other place on earth.  The dove who built her nest on my windowsill abandoned it.  But not after raising a fledgling who flew away, leaving nothing but a broken white eggshell in a nest filled with dust.   

There is the question of how to counter this sneaking form of modern fascism when the people don’t even know what the word means.  The antique scale for the sacred checks and balances fell apart long ago.  Somewhere an old poet tried to give away the spare parts but no one was interested.  As throngs of rednecks assault low wage workers at Wal-Mart, simply for asking them to wear a mask.  The history of the world is the history of greed is the history of men.

Our names are different but have the same meaning of water flowing to the sea as the Gypsy blood of our spirits.  When restless we evaporate into a passing thunderstorm to repeat the journey all over again. 

Dinner for breakfast.  Cat naps in the evening.  Reading poetry in my underwear at 3am.  Sometimes the quarantine moon feels as hot as the sun.