Victor Basta
Quarantine Street
The unarmed chairs in front
of the Reunion Cafe still
congregate under the afternoon sun,
as if nothing has happened.
Their wooden crowd backs
against the scrawled window sign:
“Take Out And Delivery
Only, Until Further Notice.”
Behind the sunlit window,
on a black marble shelf,
lurks a beige whirlpool
of family hummus,
a round, smooth genocide
of ravaged chickpeas.
On either side spread cribs
of squared-off offspring.
Each newborn tub cups a solitary
allotment, birth-marked
“Single Portions Only,”
confined since birth
behind odorless glass.
Across the road, the Muchmore
hasn’t been either all week.
Its metal chairs lounge outside,
happily respecting a distant silence,
around a solitary, dinged metal table
that bows to its heavy history
of cocktails.
On its rusted window hangs
its own hurried sign, terse
and cursive. Tucked in front
of a makeshift prison of tablecloths,
handcuffed to wood tables,
its missing owner has etched “Closed.”
Meanwhile perched on top
of Mt Carmel’s brick face,
the milk-white Jesus has recovered,
from ordering supplicants home.
He raises his golden arms
higher each day, issuing silent
instructions to the reverential
still left outside.
Today he is cleaning the sky.
Tomorrow he will admonish
his new flock of gnarled trees
to take better care,
of their thickening skin.
—Submitted on 04/26/2020
Victor Basta‘s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poet Speak Magazine, Grub Street Review, and Pisgah Review. He holds BA, MA, and MBA degrees from Columbia University. Born in Cairo, Basta is an investment banker who focuses on the tech sector.
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