In These Times

Pandemic poems are elusive
like snapshots
seemingly from another timeline
remembering mostly unretrievable
as if a dream sequence

Did I have small children once
did they love the backyard
kiddie pool
soft serve
what is soft serve anyway
and were they afraid of bees

Words fade forward and dissipate
before the chance to write them
as new horror barges in
rendering poetics irrelevant

But still some stay
as if to hold me in their arms
(I need you to atect me)