Just Another (Pandemic) Monday {a poem}

November 16, 2020
Day 237

And in the end
it will not matter
that the url expired
and the hard drive crashed,
you will not remember
how the papers yellowed
and the photos remained
disorganized and unsorted,
nor will you count
the number of times
you started a poem
only to abandon it midway.
No, in the end,
if you even know it's the end,
or maybe it won't be the end
but rather some pivot
between realms
invisible to the human eye,
you will cry out
for the ones you loved,
the ones who left first
or will be left
to navigate these daily dramas
without you.
Death is everywhere these days
and really, that has never
not been true.
But right now,
as the sun rises again
in the east, so reliably,
both a blessing and a burden
to the grieving,
you sit amidst the ordinary
detritus of a usual busy morning
in the kitchen --
wife eating, daughter measuring
coffee, son pouring milk over Special K,
dog begging, washing machine churning --
and you breathe,
returning your devotion
to this moment
rather than cursing
everything that could make you
cranky in a petty squall
of household grievances.
Do not let gratitude
be some high-pitched thing,
singing over so much loss.
But also do not let
the clutter and hiccups
of life being lived
run away with whatever
helps you remember
what really matters.