hutch

two rabbits stretch their snouts to snuffle the crabgrass.

it is nighttime at the city elementary school, 

all fences and fluorescent light, a shallow tuft

of color stubbles beneath the chrome and flag in the wind.

surrounded by a sea of velvet mulch, 

the few remaining summer flowers give 

cover to two grey bunnies searching for clovers.

they do not know it is a pandemic.

but they know the nights are growing colder.

a young woman strolls towards me, confidently muscled,

feet of a smile showing above her mask.

night after night we wade together,

forward and then stepping away--

poetry,

dancing, describing the ways I would kiss up her thigh.

our shared heartbreak. these rabbits 

stretch their bodies long

without moving their hind legs.

first they look like lovers, then dogs,

then rats,

pupils wide as the moon.

she and i gaze warm eyed in front of her door--

i want to hold her chin up to a street light

and stand in summer together for a moment.

no matter the words we use,

as we stand 6 feet apart,

a generation is learning loneliness

and to sniff out the good greens.