Facemasks

The disposable facemask

lying forlornly on the ground

in the parking lot,

used, abandoned, perhaps even hated.

Tossed carelessly between cars

like a used condom or fast food wrapper.

It doesn’t look like some kind of torture device.

It looks thin, inexpensive, medical, utilitarian.

So many Facebook posts, written in all caps.

So many viral videos of people screaming at weary store managers.

Such resistance

for such a small thing.

So many lives saved,

begrudgingly.

Malediction

I bought a cursed coffee mug

from a small, cluttered store

in New Orleans,

you know, the kind with incense 

and crystals and supposed

voodoo talismans.

It was a simple white coffee cup,

imprinted with various local attractions,

and I don’t normally go for touristy stuff,

but this cup called to me,

and somehow,

though I couldn’t really explain it,

I had to have it.

And it was $4.95,

so it was a pretty good deal.

Its cursed nature manifested itself

not long after I returned home

and started using the cup.

Kitchen cabinets started opening by themselves.

Dishes and utensils suddenly appeared 

in the wrong cabinets and drawers.

Once, I filled the coffee cup with cool water

that immediately started boiling

as the cup sat on the counter.

I had troubling dreams too,

dreams of laughing demons 

telling me I was damned,

visions of an angry elderly woman

with a slit throat,

opening her mouth to scream,

but no sound ever came out.

I’ve tried explaining this to people,

but they don’t really believe me,

not even my psychiatrist,

who prescribes me yet another sleeping pill.

I could try to throw it away, 

but it really is the best coffee cup I have.

The perfect thickness of the lip,

the pleasingly textured finish,

the ample depth.

Plus, you can put it in the dishwasher

or the microwave.

Blizzard

For five days straight,

the thick heavy wet white flakes

tumbled down recklessly,

inconsiderately,

never letting up even for a minute.

and school was closed,

and offices were closed,

and restaurants and stores,

and everything was closed,

except for that 24-hour pancake place,

but how could you even get there?

And the only way I figured they stayed open

was that the owner who worked in the front,

his kids who ran the kitchen,

and that waitress with the smoker’s cough

just never left the restaurant that whole time.

If I opened my front door,

I faced an eight-foot wall of solid snow,

packed in tight and frozen hard.

I had to chisel out a tunnel

just so my dog could take a shit,

but it was a wasted effort.

She spent her brief time outside

whining, confused,

poking her nose 

into the walls of the snow cavern

around her,

then she got too cold and started crying,

and held up her right front paw helplessly,

so I had to carry her back in,

and she crapped on the floor immediately.

And I knew this storm was coming,

everyone knew this storm was coming,

but I wasn’t sure that I had enough food

because it wasn’t supposed to go on this long

and the snow wasn’t supposed to get this high,

and what if the power goes out?

Then we’d be screwed.

So every day,

I worked for a few hours on my tunnel,

trying to dig out a little farther,

hoping to join someone else’s tunnel,

and my hands were cold and numb,

and my feet, despite my boots,

felt cold and wet.

I heard that Paul,

the idiot who lives down the street,

got out on his roof

and tried to jump down onto the top

of the huge snow bank.

He survived,

wasn’t really hurt at all,

surprisingly,

considering he’s usually drunk

and never wearing a shirt.