The Suspense Is Chilling Us

They're only 35 miles away and getting closer every minute,

Bogart tells Bergman, gauging the cannonade distance

while they sip champagne on their last day in Paris.

The enemy was German then. Our invaders now are wee--

germs, if irony’s what we want, which we don't, nor the

half-assed rhyme it rode in on. But the comparison is apt,

of that we can't deny, a time of don’t or die.

Our hugs are only air.

And without ever hearing a rumbling boom, we know too well

the enemy is here: shops are closed, jobs lost, paper products--

oh, the horror—and more and more masked faces of those

who dare leave the presumed safety of their homes.

Dying has moved into view from afar, now our local papers

and friends who’ve lost friends, family, and soon…

We don’t smile much anymore. It is to shiver with worry

and doubt. I made a mask from a blue bandanna and

rubber bands, which I will wear outside pretty soon.

When I do, it will muffle my voice should we happen

to meet in, say, the paper products aisle, and I will say

something trite, like,

Here’s looking at you, kid.

                                                                                                                     m.d. paust