They lie in faded rows, ten cents apiece –
today half price, tomorrow knifed, fine shred
recycled to wipe counters, noses – cease
as books whose authors are no longer read.
Pandemic Transgressions
Banditry – face-mask bandanas at the Co-op
Money laundering – washing dresser-top coins, with lots of suds
Shooting up in the parking lot – drive to the doctor’s office, phone, and wait.
The nurse injects you in your car.
Last Day of March
On the eleventh, I was sent home from work.
Now it’s been ten days of distance,
Zoom conferences, no rubbing shoulders
with colleagues and friends.