As luck would have it, not for sex

That would have grandeur

And accomplishment

Could glory in it

Just as Hester did

Tweak of shame a heightened thrill

The naughty kind of pleasure

But 2021 does not bring

That kind of sexy glory-shame

To anyone, I think

For sure, this second vile pandemic year

Has not brought it to me

The scarlet letter I now sport

Despite my masked, gloved, stricture-loving care

Has not been stitched

Cannot be seen, but can be heard

A sudden secret C! or maybe D, or V, perhaps?

(C, of course, for covid, coronavirus, cruel crude crown

Death-dealing doom-filled Delta, direst disease does D

Or vicious virus violation vector V)

Eighteen marching months of rudest health

Fuelled, it slyly seems, by this pandemic mode

Of distance, plexiglass, masks, hand hygiene, all that

Then — shock arrival

Of sudden, vague malaise, and soon

Onslaughts swift! harsh hoarseness, errant cough

A hot-day icebound chill morphed swift to flaming fever

Rough scratchy gloppy throat, weird ears

No appetite, food now impossible, daunting, vile

Bone-deep aching, quaking, torpor and fatigue —

All those suspect 'flulike symptoms'

So oft described, now frantic, manifest

Like uninvited pushy bare-faced guests

Yet . . . not deemed worthy of a test

Despite their tidy dating profile match

Two weeks of isolation endorsed,

Completed, done — now seem some better

No fever, chills — good energy

Okayed to venture out with distanced care

But — with no warning! — choking cough shows up anew

A bad surprise, from time to horrid time

Marks me, shames me, out there in public view

Though hidden, sort of, behind my three-ply mask