I feel your smile
under your homemade mask,
as we walk
our Sunday talk.

And there is the matter of my thinly worn jests
that barely work. You
go along, sort of, with my free entertainment
now that the TV’s broken.   

The bingo girls
aren’t out today on 34th Avenue in Jackson Heights, New York.
I wanted to share them with you—
their commitment to numbers and beads.  

The kids scoot by
to a vanishing point, slicing the air into prisms
and day drops that nourish our dreams: we want this to mean, 

to add up to more
than a time of fright and loss.
Will presence be
the harvest of so much death?  

These are hard times; hope can easily go sour.
We won’t give them that.
They won’t take away the crystal of our smiles,  

hard won against centuries of scourge  

and wanton greed. It is the tale of touch
that keeps us moving, the stories of decency
standing firm and hinting 

at kinder seasons to come.  

Just a few blocks more, my love,
my dearest companion,
and we will turn around and walk back home, and maybe
the bingo girls will be at their spot,  

giving numbers a softer game.