March 28, 2020.

A matched pair strolls the street.
Hand-in-hand.
An unfamiliar road.
"You can tell the age of the neighborhood 
By the height of the trees."
She says.
He gasps.

A young child screams.
A broken bicycle.
Skin married to sidewalk.
She is in motion.
His grip is stone.

Her will is a jackhammer.

She tends to the child.
He is frozen.
Six feet distant.
Ten thousand yards away.

The store clerk licks his fingers.
Separates the bags.
Groceries touch palms.
Hands turn doorknobs.

A child cries
All tears and mucus
And mist of breath
Filling shared air.

He isn't here.
He is a fortnight from now,
And Grandmother is dying
From eggs and toilet paper.

A child is in pain.
Tears pour from his wife's face
For a bundle of cells that she desperately needs,
But "hospital" is synonymous with "contagion".

Is she helping one child
Or killing another?
How do we move forward
When every surface is untouchable?

Stay the fuck home!

Z. Heifferon