Ribs pulled apart by convulsive coughing,
The rest of body ached too much to move
More than minimally. Bed to chair to sofa.
The day was the same for this invalid
As it was for those active—locally sunny,
Mild, another dry day for the almanac. A day.
The world does not, in fact, coordinate.
We wait on coincidences to give us
The synchronicities that give us confidence,
But those coincidences are cons. So the day,
It went one way through the sky but various
Ways through the streets and houses,
Humans, stray cats, rodents, and viruses
Like those bugs building great civilizations
In body’s throat and lungs. Body waited
Impatiently for civilization’s inevitable collapse.
In the meantime everything kept changing,
While very little seemed to move. The world
Does not coordinate, but oh it carves deep grooves.
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