Those wild pandemic eyes

that lock on yours so hungrily as you walk by

Sometimes above a mask and sometimes

with naked face pink lurking down below

Somehow a shock both ways

Start wondering if your own eyes now do the same

beam hunger too while you don't even know, can't sense

the appetitive message you yourself glow out

So many strangers speaking

stranger voices, calling you

as you walk briskly by

So very different than it was before

Today the talking comes from . . .

where? somewhere up above

Someone needing to explain

why he is standing elevated there

within that somewhat strange raised bed

A few feet higher than the ice-edged roadway,

scraped-clean sidewalk where you are

You look up — eyes meet eyes and

there he is, unmasked stranger

poised near a rough-barked, twisty treetrunk

with snowdrops pushing up

white blooming all around

He planted them, he tells you then

and you smile upward, nod

congratulate

He is in charge

of all the gardens in the condoplex, he says

But this small spot he loves the most

is proudest of

this awkward slanty, mossy corner

tiny, angled snug

above the place where cars

from underground parkade

drive growling out.

And love

this garden love is why he stands there now

Not just today, he says

this is his haunt, his favourite part

He's in here daily, looking, checking

adding something new to it

Waiting, watching as it grows

So great, you say, you get it totally, just . . . lovely

Beautiful, a total postcard brought to life

So nice to meet you, he says then

You say it back while waving upward foolishly

Smile maskless as you move off at last

The darkest part

though guiltless maybe?

The way you simply lie and lie and lie

Feels like there's nothing else to do

When he spoke out

you'd just been taking note

of final step, the total loss of any joy

in spotting pale emergence

this year's first tiny early blooms

Not that you can't tell they're pretty

nodding pristine snowdrops

mauve croci thrusting golden stamens out

You know — or 'know' — they're beautiful

Just there's no beauty feeling, no lift, this poisoned viral year

A tiredness instead, a cringing fear of this again

Grinding on of hateful time, pointless trickery of prettiness

promising those hallowed pleasures of sweet spring

reliable, they used to be

but nothing now is sweet or pretty, and nothing can be known,

save for the knowledge, now quite sure,

of shocking future horrors, every kind,

teeth and claws

screams and cries

around each haunted corner every day.