In the Time of Pandemic


The reception line presented like a coiled snake settling in for the strike.

Like the rings of red, yellow and black on the snake’s back –

The men, women, and even a child or two,

are distanced apart

as prescribed by the X’s on the pavement.

At the head of the apex of the line
stands the widow in black (no red or yellow), veiled and suited.

At this moment, words are the only way to express sorrow.

Hugs are not allowed.

Somehow, this interaction does not suffice.

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
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