The Boomer hears the Harleys and the punk cars on the road
in visible proximity through the windows of his front door.
He doesn't see them now because of the Navajo blanket
over the windows upon which the sun beats, bounding
from the white wall of his landlady's office
between the road and his front door.
It is early afternoon, and the bikers and punks are celebrating
perhaps their forced vacation from job or school, or they're
enjoying their youth or exercising their rage, or using
the roar of engines to mask their discomfort of
instinctive anticipation this viral scourge
will advance their own generation.
Or maybe, the Boomer accedes, it’s only the sunny day,
denying the gloom of abysmal news and its rules,
lifting all moods, including his own behind
the Navajo blanket blocking the sun and
muffling the boisterous sounds
of the exercised engines
through his front door.
The Boomer also wonders if his elation is not more attuned to
the fragility of his position on the spectrum of susceptibility,
the heightened clarity, appreciation, and the gratitude
for one more day--sunny, rainy, windy, or gray--as
the poets are wont to say of those condemned.