Polyurethane fumes hang in the air
but so does fear of Covid in the form of the handyman
who sands, then varnishes the floor,
who disguises old as new—
so, circus conceals corruption and stain;
so, all is pilfered until crumbs remain.
All we can do is hide,
with spines rigid against the bed
and in that intimate, last refuge,
turn, disdain the new,
admit we’ve been here before,
sniff the air like the rodent
we always were, or have turned into,
and wonder where to go from here.
