DIANE M. LABODA
A Summer Survival Checklist
When the forsaken virus starts to wane
after the men and children have survived,
stand silent and pray
to God this is the end. Stay and mourn
the collapse of compassion and empathy,
the broken morals, the shattered mores.
Don’t forget your mask. Do not breathe on me.
Resist the righteous bar crowd and instead
sanitize every inch of your body, your dwelling.
Turn your thoughts from flight
to the sunny beaches of Costa Ricas,
unmanned flight gates at the ready,
responsibility shed. The forsaken city
burns too, while vaccines, they say,
cause as much pain and bleeding
as bullets. Show your concern for those
who remain on cruise ships and suffer
theater concerts, and refuse
their civil duty, their civic duty to become
someone essential—a nurse perhaps
or test decoder, a true friend.
Refuse to run into the flame
of global hypocrisy, the emergency room
set on fire by BA-5 and lightning greed.
Run from the grocery store prophets
and café Christians touting signs of a new
order, a better species, a dead standstill.
Stand firm against January 6th complacency,
Become a mourner who remembers
every name, every grave, every silent
prayer, every broken promise.
And return home.
WCC POETRY CLUB 