I’m not a poet, nor will I ever be one,
but I can still imagine. . .
Imagine you’re someone like Warren Buffet.
For the past six months you have been sitting
on a hundred and twenty billion dollars,
waiting and waiting. . . What shall I do?
When is the right moment?
What a terrible dilemma.
Should I buy Shell Oil shares or wait?
Are prices low enough?
Now may be the moment. . .
But wait. . . imagine I could just buy a factory
and start producing medical gloves and masks
by the millions. And imagine I’d buy another one
and produce protective gear for the doctors
and nurses saving our lives.
Or maybe a factory producing ventilators?
I mean imagine, what’s a few hundred million dollars
here or there? I’m so rich it’s like having
an expensive meal somewhere.
You may ask the waiter if that is the bill
or the estimate to redecorate the dining room
but the next day you’ve already forgotten all about it,
it’s a drop in the ocean.
Ah but then again, darn, you’re not Warren
or even my friend Richard Branson,
you’re sequestrated in a house
or an apartment in quarantine.
Maybe you should raise the yellow flag
like they do on ships?
Imagine you’re in Naples,
sitting in a cramped apartment on the seventh floor
with your wife or husband, your mother in law
and three wining children with nowhere to go.
Imagine you’re a Spanish nurse
with gloves you’ve now used for the past ten days
and a bin bag for protection because
an arrogant government had no imagination.
Imagine you’re next and you may not make it,
there’s no starting over.
The light is already shining brighter
over the threshold of the beyond.
You’ve crossed the Mason Dixon Line
of your imagination; you can’t worry
about what’s been left behind –
that world no longer exists,
no use having regrets or remorse.
All that’s left now is imagining
where you could have been,
I imagine the ski slopes in the Alps together
with my wife and daughter,
challenging each other
to make the best carves in the glistering snow
while we soak up the beauty
of the world surrounding us.
I look out of my window at the Ocean
imagining what’s beyond the distant horizon.
They took my freedom but they don’t know
that I’m already gone
on a forty-seven foot sailing yacht
on my way to a faraway island in the sun
where the palm trees lazily hang
over the white sandy beaches
and the turquoise water laps at my feet.