Portrait of The Pandemic as a Grown Man

We observe him in a Western Pennsylvania suburban shopping outlet. He is 6 ft. 4ish. A loud mighty oak ironically talking about how life is too short to be worried about things all the time. A glass breaks, he says shit happens and blames it on the brown boy working there. His eyes are confused on the fence between green and greener. A sea of tossed and driven, wrong and sad. His wife wants him to be quiet. She stares from the tip of her pinched mask beyond the spray of her husband’s rhythm of thoughts. She has heard them before. She blinks steadily on cue when he breaks. She looks at him to see if he will take his swan song to the bridge this time. He does. Declares a bad cold is no reason to all stay home. He is spitting on everyone like an errant sprinkler. And the hospital next door has no beds.

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