A Catastrophe

He was hoeing the ground with diligenceWhen we passed him in his garden:A haven for pristine order.How up to date he is with hisPlants and flowers equidistant.Perhaps they’re aware, I muse,Of the Coronavirus Lockdown.

My wife started it:‘How are you holding up then Gerald?’This to a man without kids or grandkidsWhose wife is about six weeks dead.‘Well you know . . . ‘‘Well, you have to manage don’t you.’Lord help us.And then, after a pause:‘But look at this.’ He broddled with his hoe.‘It’s a black and white thing,I’ve no idea where it’s come from.’‘Er . . . well’s she’s ours actually.’And I suppose it’s our bloody catshit as well.‘I don’t know why it’s always me,The fellow who used to live in your place,Well, he had three cats but this . . .’‘I’m so sorry, but you can throw some waterOver her if you want to you know.’Christ, don’t say that, some mightMiss and hit his immaculate bloody car.Wonder what he thinks I ought to do?Surprised he hasn’t put up a signAll cats keep off the grass.

‘Yes, well, I do apologise for her.O, and by the way, how is Wahid?’I turned to look at his neighbour’s curtains,Ominously drawn, it struck me,Like the virus which struck the poor surgeon -No one to help him now but a ventilator,Working hard – doing the job it was designed to do.