Poetry in the Plague Year

Above the desk at home where I write is a large pencil drawing of our son made by our daughter-in-law, given to me for Christmas some years back. And tucked into its frame is a color shot of my grandson at age six, looking straight on and quite jaunty into the world as is and to come. Also edged in there—a popular bumper sticker that never made it to the back end of my car: WHAT WOULD WALT WHITMAN DO?

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