Digging 83

by Ernie McCray

There were times
when I was 82
that 83
didn’t seem in the cards
for me,
as Covid-19
had come on the scene
causing a run
on ventilator machines,
not caring a wit
whose clock it cleaned,
didn’t matter
if you were a pauper or a queen,
or Jack Sprat and his wife
who could eat no lean,
red or yellow,
black and white
you were precious
in its sight,
makes you,
when you go to bed at night,
forget the mundanity
of not letting the bedbugs bite
and I decided,
in my fright,
to follow the rules
regarding what to do
based on
what people in the know
asked us to do
but some of us
flat-out refused,
seen on the news,
defending their rights
to not be able to breathe
with child-like attitudes of
“You’re not the boss of me!”
and it was this pristine
category of idiocy
that made me wonder
if I’d I make it to 83.

But I went
with what
I considered wise
and cancelled from my life
hugging and fist bumps
and pecks on the cheeks,
no outings
with my grandkids
or games of hide-and-seek,
a lot of reading and writing
and watching TV,
a bit of acting,
and Zooming
to stay in touch
with my community
and maintain my humanity
in a world that proceeded to be,
where injustices
against my people
stayed alive
after so many centuries;
where a sick president
didn’t miss a beat
crafting maniacal atrocities –
but the citizenry rose
and went to the polls
in droves,
easing some of our cares and woes,
allowing
a smattering
of decency
to sweeten the air,
like a touch of sugar
in coffee or tea.

Hmmm,
I’m digging 83.