My wife and I

make our bed every morning,

our liturgy in a ritualized

worship of order.

I know!

It’s not like there’s gonna be

a stream of visitors

to our rumpus room.

The bed police are not

setting up a sting

to nab us.

But for the sake of

holding it together,

we make it anyway.

And now in the time of Covid,

as chaos conspires

to fakaka our world,

our shades-of-gray-bed-spread

is wrinkle-less smoothed,

the pillows piled just so,

fleece blankets and elastic sheet

tucked right in tight.

An orderly island in a disorderly sea.

Our hearts making sure,

as sure as we can be,

that life goes on,

even after the coming of the night,

when we entwine ourselves

in a love-calmed embrace,

and then,

turn out the light.