A Crown for Lockdown: Part Three

8.

A water-cooler moment, swapping jokes.

A glass of lager, supped inside a pub.

A weekend car-trip just to see your folks.

A crush of youngsters queuing for a club.

A breakfast at the local greasy spoon.

A whispered snatch of gossip by the sink.

A trip to Tesco’s in the afternoon.

A world we didn’t know was on the brink.

Those liberties we took for granted, gone,

Replaced by gloves and biohazard suits.

The hidden faces, forcing focus on

The focused eyes of uniformed recruits.

Their camouflage unsuited for their task –

The leisure centre car park, and the mask.

9.

The leisure centre car park and the mask,

The strict instructions they’re obliged to give;

The question that we hardly dared to ask:

What happens if the test proves positive?

Our lad is our concern: he misses friends.

Home-schooling is a burden we both dread.

And no-one knows just how this crisis ends…

Your own prognosis lingers, waits, unsaid.

For now, self-isolation could be worse,

We both can work from home without much fuss.

We're not reliant on the public purse –

No furloughs or redundancy for us.

We find such ways to tell ourselves we’re blessed…

My brother never got to take this test.

10.

My brother never got to take this test.

He died in chemo, 18 months ago.

An artery exploded in his chest.

My parents are still reeling from the blow.

My mother, though forgetful, can’t forget.

My father, stoic, silent, bruised inside.

She struggles, like a bird caught in a net.

He battles feelings he was taught to hide.

And now they’re locked down, two hours drive away,

Self-isolating in their common pain.

We phone and chat, but some things I can’t say,

While death stands at my elbow once again.

I tell them not to worry, but they do.

They say the same to me. But I do, too.

11.

You say the same to me, but still I do.

I cannot banish that incessant gnaw,

At least until your test results come through,

When I can worry less. Or worry more.

For now, the drudge of repetition bites:

We stagger through routines from day to day,

Then toss and turn our way through sleepless nights.

Our phone calls can find nothing new to say.

The time drags, though we’re always on the go,

Such dullness cuts as sharply as a knife.

We’re punch-drunk boxers, propped up by our foe,

Or two spent swimmers, clinging on for life,

Afloat, adrift, on some byzantine sea -

Just one more morsel of uncertainty.