I was going to write that note to my friend Stanley
And all my friends and even acquaintances
Of a certain age and members of our vulnerable group
I wanted to express how much I would miss them
If the plague carried them away
But then I thought, would I send such a note
On an ordinary day, in an ordinary time
A spring without body counts, gowns, and vents
And as the answer was No
Stanley might think my words irritatingly cute
A way to get attention to myself
With a sad display of flat-footed irony to boot
And he’d probably be right
Plus the note might actually make him
Think about dying, which he likely wasn’t doing
Because he’s just a very busy basically healthy guy
Who hasn’t been in touch for a while
A terse, no nonsense, uncute, nothing fancy
Grounded man, which is particularly what I like about him
Yet I thought also, Perhaps I really don’t love Stanley
As much as I think I do
And I have required the spectre of death, of Covid-19
To create this odd inventory
Of those I would miss, my Covid-19 Team
And surely this disqualifies my emotion, doesn’t it
Making it more of a selfish notion
Than true love and affection expressed
So I didn’t send my note to Stanley, not yet
Or to anyone else on my list
And the days have gone on
And I write or Skype or talk to others
In my family, of course
But not to Stanley or the others
Whom I thought I loved and would miss.
Then a mutual friend died,
Someone I knew only because of him
And it was Stanley who emailed news of her death to me
“Frannie,” he wrote, “after two weeks in hospital, Tears.”
That was Stanley, terse Stanley. Had a baby been born
His message would have been: “Easy labor. Cheers.”
But this gave me an opportunity to reply
Without the unprompted awkwardness of the note I’d tried
And so I began: writing the usual things
About how I miss Frannie, which truth be told,
Was not quite true, because unfortunately she was not on my list
Although she could have been, I suppose,
Technically, because I don’t want anyone to die
But I just didn’t feel John Donne-ish about Frannie
That I’m supposed to be an island
And everyone’s death diminishes me
Although that all depends on what you mean by “diminish”
And as I was thinking all this while replying to him
I never finished even that note to Stanley the way I had wanted
Instead I sent if off with one banal salutation or another
Like thanks for the sad news and hugs
Or, as we say these days, stay safe and be healthy.
Then that night I dreamed Stanley came down
With a terrible cough, and it lasted three weeks
And he couldn’t find a place for a test
And he said it was OK because he didn’t want to go
To a hospital anyway, because they can’t do anything for you
And he kept coughing so loudly in the dream
It woke me up, and that’s why I’m writing this
And as soon as I finish I’m going to write to him
Really, this time. Or call. Or, better yet, put on my mask
And drive over there and throw a pebble at his window
I’ll keep throwing it until I get him out of bed
And this could be part of the dream
Or not, what does it matter
Because when he raises the window, I’ll yell, I’ll cry
From six feet away, of course, I’ll shout
Don’t die, Stanley. Please, please don’t die.