Streets are empty,
so I feel strong
in my isolation,
courageous,
but I should be with family.

How does one celebrate a resurrection?
Merely another birthday party?
It should be more,
or different.

Some may not feel comfortable
looking to be in the wrong century,
driving the right car that is so wrong.

I mow the lawn and the terrible dust
ruins the sheen on the Toyota
driven by the man with Parkinson’s
who would have rather stayed home,
it is clear, and I wonder
why they let him drive

and feel compelled to be grateful
through my muddy fog, not
understanding resurrection.
I know it won’t happen
to me, but I’ll have some ham.