During the first days of the Corona pandemic

I often sat in a chair near the road, smoking cigarettes,

half a mile south of a group home that had become

infested with the virus. Three, maybe five times

a week, the shiny blue ambulance that serves

those who live north of the lift-bridge hustled by, siren

wailing, red, white-and-amber lights awhirl, and turned

into the group home parking lot. It became the habit

of an elderly man from the rental cottages across the way

to stand on his side of the road, in a dark overcoat

and surgical mask, hand over his heart, waving

a small flag as the amulance raced back toward the bridge

and the ventilators that chuffed beyond.

One terrible day, after the ambulance made the last

of three deadly runs (it’s said that only two of ten

who went on the vents survived), I called over to him,

after he’d stepped all the way to the pavement

to watch the ambulance make the final curve and the ramp
 that led to the south shore. He hesitated, then walked

back to his cottage. I haven’t seen him out since,

though from time-to-time I see what may be a hand waving
 slowly, or a half-smile in the tiny window

cut in his cottage door.

We’re running a Coronavirus poem once a week, after a call for submissions. You can read more information, and a listing of the poems, here.