All Clear

March, yes, & April & May & even all
those months before, say, back to November—
each drew silver & plastic & elastic songs
out of our tightened lungs. The sewing machine
had been repaired, the masks colourful & haphazard.
Finally, May Day, the doctor called with questions
about poetry & emptiness. His shyness
both infected & cured me. It turned into
something stone-hard that I could lob
from the city’s highest bridge clear into
the unvaccinated river. But no, but no,
that’s unkind—the doctor was considerate
& knew exactly where my fear was sitting.
Front row centre.