Ars Pandemica

after Rick Barot

I stopped shaving my beard. When some well-groomed folks in the virtual meeting room asked me about my new look, I said I was trying to look like Tagore. To come up with something like that on the spot felt good. Because I surprised myself with a lie. A feeling I had missed in months. Why did it take so long? Outside, the sun at this afternoon hour, a high voltage orb like a smile flaunting shiny teeth. Below, some people on the road board an ambulance. Its siren, a shrill psalm. Not a single thing was gentle, not even the summer wind. I was desperate to praise someone. Anyone. My shortcuts to personal grace were questionable. My thumb forked hard while writing. My cuboid room: a book of planes, invisible stack of pages. My body inside it, a slippery bookmark. It was arduous to conjure metaphors during the acute consciousness of being one. I shaved my beard hoping it would make a difference. I retweeted vociferously that day. Made a playlist to drown out my dread. Then ate a plateful, chewing a lot to drown out the songs.