Anthony Cappo: Grocery/COVID
Photo: Joanna C. Valente
The Birds Have No Idea
It’s late March and they’re back.
Cooing, warbling, waking me
far earlier than I’d like. Are they confused?
Where are the gliding heads,
the swinging limbs? They’ve returned
to a moonscape. And come to expect
such enthusiasm. Where is
the baked cake, the fatted calf,
the caramel popcorn?
The city’s empty. The rich gone
to their summer homes, getting
stink-eye from the locals. Everyone else
shuttered inside, emerging maybe
for supervised walks—six-feet
apart, no ball-playing in parks.
Fear so palpable the birds
are hardly heard. Or appreciated.
They’re an owner come back from
a long business trip—the dog
just mopes in greeting, barely wags its tail.
Spring always so celebrated but this year
it’s a barely-sketched hut way in the background
of a vast landscape painting. The only subject
is our lives. You hear it in the streets,
the parks, along the river—the virus.
We’re washing hands, sanitizing,
slapping together masks. We want this pall
to pass over. Skip the spring, jump-cut
to summer. We want to flee
the burning ship, reach the beach.
We want to hear the birds singing
each to each.
Grocery/COVID
I plan trips with military precision—
know my targets like pins on a map.
More quartermaster than casual shopper.
Think how ridiculous it is that outside I zip
to the middle of the street to keep six feet
away, when here, in cramped city aisles,
I smoosh by people—a mere foot apart.
Past shoppers, past clerks stocking shelves,
doing God’s work keeping a city eating.
Virus ravaging their ranks. An old man
wobbles toward me, eyes flashing anxious, so I back out
and wait until he’s clear. My glasses fog up
from my mask even though I did the shaving cream trick
my mother told me. My wheeled basket
piling up with a week’s worth of shopping—salad,
pasta, soup, peanut butter, bananas.
I navigate checkout (no cash, no touch, no signature
needed) and leave the store with four heavy bags.
On the way in, I’d passed the Church of the Village,
people lined up around the block—for food, I think.
And now I’m carrying four bags of privilege
through emptied morning streets. Ten-minute walk
home extended—keep stopping because the weight’s
too heavy for my arms. I imagine what I’d do
if a hungry stranger approached me with my haul.
Here’s an orange, a box of Triskets, some wasabi
seaweed. Sucking in heavy on my mask—I wish
I’d removed it, but remember I’m still passing
people on the sidewalk. I leave 14th Street and am back
in my leafy neighborhood. I lug the bags up to my walkup,
set them on the floor. Put goods away, wipe the counter,
then wash my hands with a thousand flames.
Safe, I go to my computer, google Church of the Village
food bank.
Anthony Cappo is the author of the chapbook, “My Bedside Radio” (Deadly Chaps Press, 2016). His poems have appeared in THRUSH, Prelude, Connotation Press, Yes, Poetry, and other publications. Anthony’s work was in the compilation, “Poems In The Aftermath” (Indolent Books 2018). He received his M.F.A in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College. His work can be found at anthonycappo.com.
