My stockpile is such that
when I open a closet I brace
for an avalanche of toilet paper.

In the kitchen are enough cans of beans
to last a months-long struggle, for my son
to pass the hours building steel pyramids.

I’ve strewn fat books of poetry around the house
like a Beagle hiding bones to find delight in the
mundane and comfort when there’s nothing else to do.

Sometimes, taking a break from the news and work,
I’ll spot the collected works of this or that poet
and, for a moment, have context for despair.

I’m talking to my son now. I want you to know
that I wore a mask, that I quarantined, and protested,
and wrote things that failed to stop the death and

suffering of this horrible age, that if we manage to
survive, a time will come when my poems,
gathering dust, just might keep you alive.

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