Far too hot for a snowstorm
Yet the snow was settled there
Lying in patches on the ground
Hanging in icicles from the roof
It was far too hot for warm drinks
Too cold for fresh vegetables
Something was poured from an open can
Red, thick, exuding a sour smell
This was back when people were still being served
Cursing their bad luck for being caught in this crowd
Broiling in front of the open fire
How innocent we were
Sitting around at tables, packed together
Sweating in mutual discomfort
How innocent we were
I don’t miss the discomfort
Not the snow, not the concoction in the can
I miss the innocence
Is there a cure for our condition?
Should that innocence return?
The innocence of a crowd sitting at tables
Unaware of any danger other than discomfort
Maybe there was always danger
Lurking in wait in the crowds
Never defined or definite
We could touch the table others sat at
Not worrying about clung to our fingers
Only grime, dirt, and something smelly
Not a virus scattered by past fingers.
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