Florida, Florida, Land Of Eufloria Poem by Doug Lane

The governor
has told everyone
to cut loose,
to gather in
public places,
restaurants
and bars,
and cough
into each other's
faces.

To take to the beaches
with naked
embraces.

The old
come here
with their last shreds
of health and vitality
to enjoy, at last,
not working.
But not so fast.
No sooner
have they arrived
than they find themselves
in assisted care
fighting for air,
their blood
turned to
jelly.

If only the governor
could master the art
of not testing
and counting

everything would be all right.
What's not to like
about a spike
or 2, or 3?

If a spike
rises
in a pandemic
and the leaders,
who want to be liked,
pretend
not to see it,
has it really
spiked?

Keep dumping the dead
out back,
in the garden,
and party on.

They call this
the re-opening,
the economic recovery,
the American Way,

which is more important
than life itself,
than the life
of a nonagenarian,
an octogenarian,
a septuagenarian,
a meatpacker, a nurse, a prisoner,
or a beachgoer or barfly
celebrating
the excitement
of the
recovery.