Disposable gloves

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.