Quarantine by Morgan Bazilian

Dog

The dog
walks herself,
essentially.

She sniffs around
in some kind of
shock.

It all sounds
so silent, so
empty.

She stares down
a lone bunny
in a huge field.

That field opens
to the whole world,
a universe.

Expanding,
and almost entirely
without matter.

Couch

The children call it a couch.
It is blue
and full
and comfy
and they fight mildly
for the blue blanket
that stays on better,
and seem somewhat
agnostic
about the movie
playing.
They have had so much time together
they can’t quite
remember
the regular world
before the daily
death tolls.

Snow Again

The snow comes again,
though expected
it is also insulating.

The quiet,
normally welcome,
is today, stifling.

Any noise
or activity
a welcome respite.

One month
into the quarantine;
the lockdown.

And one could be
forgiven
for becoming furious.

Morgan Bazilian is a professor of physics and poet.