A long way back from the front line
in the glove compartment.
Sparrows chatter in the bamboo
as we sip prosecco on the patio
and talk about changing our wills.
The interminable thump
of ball against wall.
I have cosseted that clematis
outside the kitchen window
with water and teabags.
Now the buds are ready
to burst open like teardrops.
But every Thursday evening at eight
we stand outside our front doors
and clap, and maybe holler, too,
and try to imagine for a moment
what it’s like, in their shoes, in ICU.