The fools thumb their noses,
Crowding together in defiance of infection,
A riot of individuals blending but not uniting.
They swing their naivete as blunt cudgels,
Recklessly, callously, indiscriminately -
They do not care or notice whom they strike.
Their cheers and screams are muted in the parlor.
The window is closed -
The sashes are drawn.
The clock ticks up and up,
Counting time and counting consequences.
Six feet apart,
Shoulders squared,
We stare into our tea.
"10K today," you say.
Your teacup does not tremble.
The china does not clink.
"Probably," I reply.
The tea gleams darkly.
The liquid swirls turbulently.
We do not yell out the windows.
There is honey in the tea;
Our voices are hoarse.
The clock ticks up into the grim, expectant quiet.
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