The Writings of

Luke D Evans

short stories, poetry, and novels

"Fiction is the truth inside the lie."
 

Stephen King

“Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.”

Robert A Heinlein

A Walk in the Time of Corona

spring's returned with storm clouds

over the peak. talk of quarantine

and isolation from everyone

but ourselves. corona i recall

is a crown, it's a ring around

the sun or other body

in the sky

 

the puppy knows nothing

of death rates or how we measure

success by failure. she is happy,

a little timid when the strangers

walk (six feet) past, and always curious.

she knows nothing of corona

tears or the desperation

of nurses

in a time of blurred shifts

and bleary-eyed peers

my wife's grandpa passed

from weariness of life and

heart failure, but she can't see him

one last time. the bishop says so.

to cross state lines, to bring disease

that is already there

and other corona fears.

so we sit, we mourn. we adjust

and forget,

eventually

 

kids play along the creek

and the puppy watches, ears up.

she is alert to potential dangers.

water is muddy with runoff

from last week's snowstorm.

it pours sandy brown over the weir

and we watch it, mere passersby.

warnings don't apply to us,

of flash floods in the tunnel

so we walk

precariously through

as corona nears

 

god forbid we need

butter or bread

or ground beef, see

the corona leers i receive

with an extra loaf

for sandwiches. the roads

have cleared but the apocalypse waits

for no one they say but us.

it takes the destitute,

the weak, the unsheltered

first

 

as we crank into another corona

gear, perhaps shut up

in homes with nothing to amuse us

save life and love, we may yet

survive. some of us won't

and more if we don't, so we wait

with fingers clean and firmly pointing.

at the bridge, i watch the storm clouds

that obscure the rockies and wonder

if they too will come down

in this new corona year.

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This one is a little more personal, expressing the range of emotion that comes with fostering, or perhaps raising children in general.

 

There are two threads here, that can be read separate (regular font and italics) or together. They make more sense separate, and that is also intentional.

 

These things don’t really make sense, not to us mere mortals, and the more threads we pull and voices that join in, the more confusing it can get. Sometimes, you just have to sit back and listen to the cacophony.

 

You might find harmony in it.

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