A blue-masked woman

hurry-scurries

over the bridge

over the dammed-up

Little Darby Creek

where the goldfish

are multiplying.

They seem oblivious of

me and my mask.

 

At the Morris Ave Wawa

a twitchy clerk

with no mask

checks me out.

 

Spizzico Pizza

has no server.

He quit

because he had no mask.

The morose cook

hands me my calzone

with latex-gloved hands.

 

Yellow tape flutters

at the sharply inclining entrance

to the Radnor Rail Trail.

On the forbidden side,

a grinning mother

and her ear-budded daughter

stretch their spandexed legs

on the Road Closed sign.

They are special.

 

Special too,

a young mother

running behind her baby stroller

on the banned drive.

She glances behind her

and doubles down

on her morning workout.

 

And how do I feel?

Cheated.

The cook has skimped–

no zesty ingredients.

Disappointed.

Radnor Parks planted

cheap bulbs

with no fragrance

to cheer us up.

 

I taste no garlic

on my favorite cheese calzone

and do not smell my favorite purple hyacinths

this special spring.

 

Northeast gusts

waft the invisible

125 nanometer

coronavirus mist

every which way.

(So I’m told.)

 

It’s so pretty and clean-looking

here in the Twilight Zone ®.

same same but different