A poem in the pandemic, by Kevin Higgins
after Brian Patten
Now all the old gods have died
or are on life support in
the prison infirmary psychiatric wing
we have a new name for the absolute:
AstraZeneca. Even those who get
emotional at dinner parties
about the state of the planet
know there’s no talking back
to AstraZeneca, the one who now decides
who gets to go outside
and who must remain in the cupboard.
Old women, whose husbands
haven’t come back out of
the bedside locker since this time last year,
get down on their bony knees
and ask AstraZeneca to please
keep them in there for good.
The Minister for Exams clasps
her sad hands together and pleads
that AstraZeneca intercede
before she’s pushed
through the streets by students
in a shopping trolley
wearing a dunce’s hat.
Diplomats, Popes, and
Patriarchs of Constantinople
issue joint communiqués begging
AstraZeneca to save us
from the Russians.
Like most gods, AstraZeneca
has a customer help-line
it never answers.
But we dial it in any case,
our nerve endings electric
at the thought of what
we’re at the mercy of.
As the next war starts
every side claims this
new deity belongs to them,
and the streets ring
with the sound of AstraZeneca laughing.
