Plague Poem for Day Twenty-Seven


It was telemedicine in its most primitive form

but telemedicine nonetheless, I sat on the couch

in the living room holding our landline phone

in one hand while going through my health notes, 

the ones I keep, with the other, and she was there,

my doctor on the other end of the line, clicking

away on her computer, asking softball questions

about how I feel and if I have had any symptoms 

of the virus, as if I would have kept them a secret

from her, and then she clicks on to the real issue

weÕve been tossing back and forth like a weighted

medicine ball, first over to me to give the series of

blood pressure readings I have kept since last time,

then back to her to comment, itÕs never too good, 

she has her set of numbers, the perfect ones to fit 

my age and weight, and I have mine, the sad high ones

from my list. This is when telemedicine works the best,

weÕre not face to face; she doesnÕt get to give me one

of those parental looks, chiding the child in me who

canÕt get things right, her disappointed look becomes

something I only imagine. My embarrassment is met

with more clicking, sounds like tsking, and a new drug

to take to replace the one I have taken for years, and

her closing – scheduling our next phone visit, setting

new goals we both know I wonÕt meet, and then saying

good-bye as if we were old friends wishing each other well,

tele-doctor and patient working at our primitive best.




Plague Poem for Day Twenty-Eight


The newness finally wears off

as we knew it would

short attention span and all

we tire easily, and so begin to

look around for something else

a shiny new object

perhaps the business of it

since we canÕt follow the science

even as dumbed down as it is,

opening, closing possible doors

the essential vs. the existential

of course, thereÕs the politics

to toss around

like a beachball in the grandstands

but empty grandstands

even on Sunday

our churches closed, 

games called off

this home alone loses its newness

slubbers the gloss of our good times

like interrupting The Price is Right

each day to have governors give

numbers, higher numbers

the tiresome curve of dead and dying

no wonder the newness has

finally worn off!




Plague Poem for Day Twenty-Nine


And so, itÕs raining today

it always seems to be,

the rain it raineth etc.

but itÕs April now so

the day seems clichˇ 

if you will.

Perhaps I should pull

a Gene Kelly to amuse

the neighbors

picture them looking out

at me stomping and 

swinging, singing with

full orchestra behind me.

So, itÕs raining and April,

too much has been said

already about this cruelest 

month, like an idiot 

babbling and not yet 

strewing flowers

they come next month

the flowers that is

perhaps we should gather

at the Tabard Inn and

head off to seek the holy

blissful martyr.

ItÕs that simple, itÕs raining

and weÕre shut-ins,

perhaps we should 

dance, sing, strew, head off

together, itÕs raining

it raineth, itÕs April, perhaps

we can get away

from here.


© J. K. Durick


Bio:  J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Literary Yard, Front Porch Review, Nine Muses Poetry, Madswirl, and in the anthology, Along the Way.