We all live in a COVID quarantine, a COVID quarantine, a COVID quarantine…..etc. Haven’t gotten around to the actual verses yet!

“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more—that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . . Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

***

Sick, 2020

We cannot go outside today,
We’ve quarantined without delay.
We have a virus like the flu,
We really don’t know what to do.
We cough and wheeze and gasp and choke,
Our hospitals are good as broke.
We wear our gloves and don our masks,
We must to do the simplest tasks.
It is a fearful thing to shop,
When oh when will this all stop?
We wait at home, shelter inside,
There seems to be no place to hide.
These tiny germs that go unseen,
Someone please wake us from this dream!
Some pray for help from up above,
Some far away from those we love.
We miss each other so darn much,
Our faces that we don’t dare touch.
How hard it is to watch the news,
We sink into the deepest blues.
We all have ways we try to cope,
Our strategies for finding hope.
Some cry or sleep or knit or paint,
Some carry on without complaint.
We read a book or cook a meal,
And tell ourselves this isn’t real.
A thing like this we never thought:
This brand new sickness we’ve all caught.
So often now we wash our hands,
Can’t claim that we have any pla—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say that it’s almost… May?
We are so close, yet so far away.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

* * *
Rewritten Version 2020

Whose ‘Hood this is I think I know,
So many neighbors missing though;
There’s none to mind me stopping here
Alas, there’s nowhere else to go.

My trusty dog must think it queer
To pass when there’s a dog run near
‘Tween Central Park and Avenue
The darkest season of the year.

She toots a bark, puts on her brakes
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the blare
Of sirens rushing everywhere.

The park’s a lovely, peaceful space,
But I have many meals to make,
And time to bide until we’re safe,
And time to bide until we’re safe.

Cynthia, I can’t wait to read your re-written version!