as I turn over once more and hit snooze,
phone in hand, head lopped to one side.
A viscous string of drool oozes onto the pillow.
I am incapacitated, not drunk,
merely struck dumb by the insinuation:
deaths in the UK, they say, are comparable.
The graph shows double, at least, to my trained eye.
A singularly stubborn nation breezes into pubs,
sneezing wantonly, coughing masklessly.
The kids are in school now, anyway.
Caution and wind approach a wheezing climax.
I feel silly yet safe, pint in hand, out in the chill,
wondering at these alien beings who laugh, indoors,
blissfully ignorant, or sanguine, I can never tell.
I think, they must have good private health insurance.
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