[Nhcoll-l] Seasonal Selection 2020

[John E Simmons]

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of pandemics stays us from the
completion of our annual poem... #31 in a never-ending series is below for
your holiday pleasure.

2020 Vision

(St. Entropy needs his checked)



‘Twas the night before Christmas; down the museum halls,

Not a creature was stirring—they were all on Zoom calls.

The stockings were hung (after being steam cleaned,

Due to concerns over COVID-19).

My colleague in her faceshield, and I in my mask

Maintained social distance—we each had our own flask.

The museum was silent, as quiet as a stone,

As I unwrapped our very own Curator DroneTM.

(It flies through the hallways, all smiles and concerns,

But costs only half what a curator earns.

It points out all your errors, just like a consultant,

But solves none of the problems—it’s more an insultant.

Like curators, though, it can sleep in collections,

And never falls prey to biologic infections.)

I’d stocked up on supplies to manage this caper

(And found dissertations make great toilet paper).

Though it had taken a year, I read Defoe through,

And I was no stranger to the plague of Camus.

I’d bought canned beans and puzzles to get through bleak December.

Was there anything else? Not that I could remember.

But then, in a twinkling, with my heart almost cheery,

I heard a strange sound, right upon midnight dreary.

Away to the window I flew in a hurry,

But something was wrong. Was it now time to worry?

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Just like Fukushima, was starting to glow.

When, what to my begoggled eyes should appear

But a miniature sleigh led by eight virus-free deer?

The driver, emerging from a sealed plastic canopy

I knew in a moment was our own St. Entropy.

I then heard a crash and a thud and a rapping

And St. Entropy appeared with a swish and a tapping.

His eyes, how they glittered; his smile, so serene;

I hoped he was bringing the new viral vaccine.

He was dressed all in Tyvek, from the mask to the boots,

But this was no year for fur on the suits.

Over his shoulder, he was manhandling a sack

Which he proceeded to open and quickly unpack.

“I bring gifts!” the Saint shouted, “Relief from your woes,

No more you’ll be troubled with ravens and crows!”

My heart slowly sank, my hopes now eroded…

The Old Saint had muddled up corvid and COVID.

The vaccine that he’d carried over mountain and loch

Worked only for smart birds that flew in a flock.

We had plenty of magpies, crows, ravens, and jays,

But none of them live ones; all stored in arrays.

We had to do something. It was urgent. What’s more,

The museum had those volumes of forgotten lore.

We looked up old research and programmed the Drone

To leave our safe shelter and go out on its own.

Away it flew, just like soft down from a thistle

(Okay, maybe not, but it came back when we whistled).

It went to the labs and retrieved new vaccines,

And brought them in safely. Deus ex machines.

The Saint, who had medical training (who knew?),

Injected us all, and flu flew up the flue.

Then, not laying a finger anywhere near his nose

(Kids, don’t touch your face!), up the fume hood he rose.

And I heard him exclaim, as I bolted the door,

“Merry Christmas! And COVID, for you….Nevermore!”



(Sally Shelton and John Simmons want everyone to stay well and safe, or
else. Yeah, else.)
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