PALE LEMON SQUARE

When they say nobody rides horses anymore
what they mean is: look, the ineffable sadness
has returned, and while every mindless plant
in town is blooming, an accidental family
reunion is also growing, and my neighbors’
houses are filling up with maiden aunts.
For a time, trading was all the rage, and now
I’d like to try it again. You give me
your native handbag collection, and I will give you
my lilac soap. Later we can get carried away
and perhaps even employ a tombola. I will not,
I cannot remain in charge of prizes. Please,
you must look quickly at our fellow citizens
and tell me, do they not seem unwell? I feel so
concerned. I feel like I’ve been studying
to become a doctor forever and now, faced
with a real-world pandemic, I’m full
of unmitigated lust for business—as though
I were sitting in a high school classroom
watching the morning’s snow foster impending
cancellations and all the attendant policies. Soon,
if not at once, the library and gymnasium will be
redubbed infirmaries, and you and I will drift
among the cots like swans in ever-wider grids.