Our grandfathers called it morning constitutional
and they never told us why they did it.
They never wore masks.
I go outside because
if I don't
nothing else gets done.
There's a path
that forms a triangle.
I float over it daily,
a phantom shadow of before.
Twisted steel knots line the top of a fence
and undulate with the lay of the land.
The barrier is redundant, as there are no children
to kick their field goals or knock their homeruns
out onto the highway.
The grass is overgrown,
the children stay home.
Old people
who don't read the news
walk their dogs.
Restaurants with hand-painted signs in their windows
like survivors of a zombie apocalypse.
Dine in or eat out.
Alive inside.
There are more ravens this year.
Someday this will all be over
but memories for those who lived it.