A Poem for the Plague

What’s that in my window?
Bright morning Sun.
What are you doing outside?
There's plague afoot.
Everything's closed.
I’m already sick,
it won’t take much to finish me off.
Aren’t you ashamed?
Roaming the streets like nothing’s happening,
touching my face after 
you touch everyone else’s,
spreading joy
so inappropriate at this time.
You must not care at all
about anyone but yourself.
Look at all the plants, 
already infected,
perking up through the soil,
getting ready to spread their seeds.
Go home, wild iris!
Stay down, wild grass!
Are you such yokels
that you don’t read the news
or follow the numbers?
Or have you been brainwashed by right-wing
conspiracy theorists to think 
the whole thing is “fake news?”
This is real, Sun.
Real people are dying.
If there’s one cause of this plague
the doctors have neglected,
it’s you, morning Sun.
I bet you’re coming out
even in China,
Where this sort of behavior is banned.
I guess there’s no stopping you.
We’re all doomed.
At least I’ll die happy.