Writing the Poetry of the Pandemic

My head is empty.
I knew working on my pandemic book would make me dry up.
I’m almost seventy

years old, with the dignity
of a big-eyed pup,
and my pen is empty,

but I'm scratching away
anyway on my pandemic book.
You’d think, at seventy,

I’d display the gravity
of age, but I dropped
my respectability-ballast so my hold is empty.

Luckily, I have my pandemic book to fall back on! I avoid despondency
by trying to keep up
with how life changes from day to day at seventy,

but I feel I’m approaching a crevasse in history.
There may be no more poems in the world to come!
My head is empty.
I’m almost seventy.