What the Gypsies Told My Grandfather After a So-Called Fragrant Month of Quarantine

‘War, illness, and (yes) famine’
sleep in the same bloody suit-
case that late last night I tied
to a rope and left hanging above

midnight’s loud, diminished
stroke, on the balcony
where still there are a few
gun salutes and rooster claps

as President Trump crows on
and so out of proportion; over
the bombed, epic, non-speaking
factory windows of humanity,

not taking the type of questions
that might check or think to report
his temperature, as another cockroach
climbs up the nose of my TV wall

with (yes) the long drawn out sigh
of the late-night sound turned off.

              **the** first line ('war, illness and famine') borrows from Charles Simic's poem "What the Gypsies Told My Grandmother While She Was Still a Young Girl" 

(SIXTY POEMS_Harcourt*_53).