I promised a poem about cubre-bocas weeks ago, back when they were more fashionable and in-demand, put I put it on hold while trying to leave my job, move across the country and radically modify the rhythm of my days. Without further ado, however, here is the poem.
But first, I will tell that Lola, my lone comapanion as I write this, just situated herself quite comfortably on our newly uncovered couch (previously covered in boxes, suitcases and other inappropriate living room decor). At least we bathed her two days ago!
Ahem. The poem:
A drop of sweat slides down my calf.
I am clutching a cloth bag with
six bottles of spirits and wine
hoping no one claims this
yellow special needs seat
because there are no others left.
A couple boards, wearing matching
face masks. They cannot kiss like that.
A young woman holds a scarf to her
mouth, nearly the same electric
blue as the surgical mouth covers.
She is improvising. Still, she is not safe.
She is behind the woman who withdrew
her hand before actually touching
the man who didn't respond
to her request to move over.
Someone else got his attention.
I am rolling and folding the thin
bus ticket between my fingers,
the same one that the driver touched.
The bus finally stops for me.
Perhaps there was a collective,
albeit shallow, sigh of relief:
she has taken her potential germs.
She was not wearing a cubrebocas.
