Nights

a poem

Night 1: 

I start a journal on my phone — feels right, feels like history. 
You tell me your unit’s still normal but 
I hear Costco’s out of chicken and TP?

Night 12:

I scroll through twitter too much; 
you’re worried about the counts, 
and doublechecking our stash of gloves. 

Night 20:

You start each morning looking at your skin, 
doing what you can but these masks are unforgiving;
I pick you up at work and you’re quieter than before.
Our trip to the Bahamas would have been today;
“11 rapids”, you tell me out in front of Katz, 
eyes closed, head pressed back against the headrest.
I don’t know what to say.

Night 23:

Your old teacher died — too young; his wife was on TV, but I 
couldn’t bear to send you the link.
I hear you in your sleep that night:
Oh God. Oh God.

Last night: 

You describe the look a receptionist gave you 
after you told him what it was like.
You think you might have scared him a bit.
You talk of people that slipped away right as they had a chance,
I think: 
if it weren’t for you, what chance would they have had?