I’ve been at the cabin for weeks
so when I get back to the city
I’m not used to the crowds in masks,
made more haunting because
I’m watching them cross the street
while Tchaikovsky plays
like thunder in my car.
I want to look away
to call a friend
to scroll on my phone
to eat pudding.
I want to flee this sudden
feeling of dread that has roped
its way around the inside
of my throat.
But I don’t.
I can be here, too,
inside this heaviness.
I can breathe
and loosen that rope.
I can witness
the wanting out.
“A third wave is upon us,”
the public health officials declare,
but I already knew that.
It rises up
and crashes over me,
yet I am still here,
afraid but un-drowned.