April 2, 2020FlyBob Hicok

We are alone.

At seven o’clock around the world, people are clapping

at open windows and on balconies for everyone trying

to help us stay alive, doctors and nurses and pizza delivery guys.

We are alone but not alone. At the same time, a man plays clarinet

across my valley to neighbors and cows. We are alone but not alone

in being alone. Friends drinking virtually get actually drunk

and sing all the show tunes they know. We are alone but not alone.

A call arrives: a woman I loved and lived with has died. I am alone.

She joins a growing number on TV each night. When I was a kid,

Cronkite tolled the dead on CBS every evening. Then a war, now a virus;

then far, now at our doors. I am alone but not alone. I open every window,

take my drink, my desire for wings, my scream outside.

It’s warm, sunny, there’s a jump in the grass and the trees: spring.

I am alone but not alone in looking more tenderly at daffodils

than I have in years. Go you yellow dreamers, go: rise. We are alone

but not alone in feeling lucky as others die that we have been left alone.

At seven o’clock around the world, people are clapping

at open windows and on balconies for God and the air to hear

that we’re still alive.