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At a painted picnic table on North
Main Street
We four friends laugh and play COVID cards
Under streetlamp and string lights and
Warm wind. (I win the round.)
Under government order
Large gatherings are limited.
By day restaurants offer up meals to go
But it’s past the townsmen’s hour which means
The patios are ours for the taking.
Tonight we play outside the ice cream spot
At the brick building beside
The local mercado y taqueria
With my beloved enchiladas poblanas.
Three men scrub the kitchen inside and one by one
Cross the street to their neighboring abodes.
After two more rounds
The game slows (yes, I win again)
And we settle to a quiet which
Only intimate acquaintances can accept
And only a locked-down city could offer.
And I notice for the first time
Tres hermanos seated across the street—
Cards on a folding table—in perfect silence.
If ever we go home to sleep,
We will arise
For our scheduled zoom meetings and dog walks.
But—I think—if after 10,950 intervals
Of sleeping and waking
I get again to draw breath,
I hope to find that we’ve remained
Just like them.