A DAY IN PANDEMIA

by Richard Fox

I.

Suit up like an astronaut exploring a poison planet.

Fasten a fabric mask over my mouth and nose.

Mount a helmet with face shield on my head.

Slip harness on Bailey, snap leash into clip.

Slide on latex gloves. Turn the key, open door. 

Step into the airlock disguised as porch.

Morning walk. few wear protective gear.

Neighbors stroll elbow-to-elbow, whisper in ears. 

Bailey receives greetings. For me—smiles, smirks.

My steps set a meter. Words dance into lines.

Bailey stops to sniff. I memorize a stanza.

Laughter shatters my reverie.

A teen girl yells, No way anybody’s quarantining me.

Three families surround her, lips uncovered.

Kids play tag, mark IT by rolling on the lawn.

II.

March into the hospital, obey taped lines, six feet apart.

Nurse takes my temperature. Asks screening questions.

Disinfects my hands. Double-checks my mask.

The long lobby—chairs, tables barren.

One person to an elevator.

Approaching patients hug opposite walls.

Podiatrist’s waiting room. Three out of four chairs blocked.

We may sit, satisfactorily spaced, sucking air through masks.

The coatrack, verboten. No magazines or solitary games.

Exam room surfaces shine, sealed sterile packets covered. 

Nurse removes my protective sandals, socks.

Puts a spacer next to my right big toe.

The doctor rolls near, picks at a cuticle.

Pus leaking out from under nail. Infected. Must remove. 

He disinfects, injects, waits for lidocaine to numb.

Hey doc, thanks for seeing me. This is my big day out.

He grins. You’re keeping me in business. The wards are empty.

Even the COVID-19 unit has fewer beds filled.

He begins cutting, yanking the nail. Patients refuse to come 

to the hospital for critical tests. Friend of mine, cardiologist, lost 

a patient yesterday. Guy kept postponing appointments. 

My friend begged him to come in. Safe here. It’s all statistics. 

What will kill you first. Patient died at home. Massive MI.

Podiatrist bandages my wound. 

III.

Home, my couch. Prop foot up on pillows. Read the Post: 

people—me—with malignancies  in lungs, three times 

more likely to die from Coronavirus.  Time for supper.

When not writing about rock ’n roll or youthful transgressions, Richard Fox focuses on cancer from the patient’s point of view drawing on hope, humor, and unforeseen gifts. He is the author of four poetry collections and the winner of the 2017 Frank O’Hara Prize.

SPRING AND FALL

by Fran Schumer

An empty FDR Drive in New York City was photographed on March 25, 2020. Credit: Phil Penman via The U.S. Sun

It was a beautiful fall, and we all remembered that it was because it was
such a terrible time. From the reservation near my house, you could see
where the towers stood. For days afterward, someone posted a sign:
Dear Jesus, Please bring Mr. Spinelli home.

This spring is beautiful, too; piles of pink on the streets of my deserted
suburb, the magnolia trees past their prime. I walk every day with my
husband, our new routine, and notice what I might have missed before, like
the hawks flying overhead, above the skyline where the buildings burned.

I see hyacinths and daffodils and creeping phlox, pale and soothing like the
blue the doctors wear or the coverlets on patients in the ventilators. We’ll
remember those patients, and how good it was not be one of them, to eat a
banana after weeks of canned pears, not to be the only person living in fear.

It’s not so bad when everyone is afraid of the same thing, though some
days you’re afraid of those other things too. On those days, especially,
it’s good to be distracted by the work it takes just to eat, to go out, and,
heaven forbid, risk it at the bike shop because one of your tires is flat
and you need to ride to see all this beauty, the expressway beneath you, so eerie
and empty of cars. In more normal times, the traffic could kill you.

Fran Schumer is the author of Powerplay (Simon and Schuster; NYT bestseller) and Most Likely to Succeed (Random House). Her work has appeared in various sections of The New York Times including Op Ed, Book Review and Sunday Magazine; also, Vogue, The Nation, The North American Review, and other publications. She is the winner of a Goodman Loan Grant Award for Fiction from the City University of New York. She lives and teaches in New Jersey.