it began in early summer
after the cafes & restaurants
carved dining areas
from empty parking spaces,
scratched we're open,
thank God!
on sidewalk blackboards
in untouched yellow chalk
& left stacks of face masks
by their cracked & lonesome tip-jars.
then the heat roared:
an invisible demon
more familiar than the one
that forced New York
to scrub the sheen
from brass doorknobs
& let packages wilt
in the bleaching sun
until we were sure
that, maybe, probably,
they wouldn't kill us.
& so,
gradually,
our guard has slipped,
fallen with the sweaty masks
from our sun-starved faces.
now we look up from the headlines
on our cracked phones & scatter
like weighted dice across the asphalt,
tumble into makeshift clubs
& wield our takeout cocktails
like torches against the dark.
we draw deep their sugared potency
through long, paper straws,
thinking: yes, it's just like I remember--
this feeling, the old invincibility.
this is how it tasted last summer.
these are the old jokes
that never stopped being funny.
we're even kissing again.
& then someone starts coughing
into their parched hands--
long wheezes, body shakes,
a barrage of sick intensity.
still, we say nothing. our chairs scrape
the hot earth as we inch closer to the tables
& sip from our glasses, parched
for more memories of a healthy past.
after the cafes & restaurants
carved dining areas
from empty parking spaces,
scratched we're open,
thank God!
on sidewalk blackboards
in untouched yellow chalk
& left stacks of face masks
by their cracked & lonesome tip-jars.
then the heat roared:
an invisible demon
more familiar than the one
that forced New York
to scrub the sheen
from brass doorknobs
& let packages wilt
in the bleaching sun
until we were sure
that, maybe, probably,
they wouldn't kill us.
& so,
gradually,
our guard has slipped,
fallen with the sweaty masks
from our sun-starved faces.
now we look up from the headlines
on our cracked phones & scatter
like weighted dice across the asphalt,
tumble into makeshift clubs
& wield our takeout cocktails
like torches against the dark.
we draw deep their sugared potency
through long, paper straws,
thinking: yes, it's just like I remember--
this feeling, the old invincibility.
this is how it tasted last summer.
these are the old jokes
that never stopped being funny.
we're even kissing again.
& then someone starts coughing
into their parched hands--
long wheezes, body shakes,
a barrage of sick intensity.
still, we say nothing. our chairs scrape
the hot earth as we inch closer to the tables
& sip from our glasses, parched
for more memories of a healthy past.
Michael McSweeney is a writer and editor based in Brooklyn, N.Y., where he lives with his partner and cat. These days, he's finishing up a novel and intermittently publishing new work on his personal blog-newsletter, The Greenwood Heights Review. He tweets on Twitter at @mpmcsweeney.