Fear in the Bucket

Bending over to scoop with both hands,
My sweating flesh to cool from the heat of the lockdown,
Suddenly, I stop.
There is fear in the bucket.
That isn't my face reflection mirrored in that bucket.

I stop to investigate,
This face, chocked with overgrown beards,
Those once cubby chicks, replaced by these delicate chick bones.
Confused, my head heavy with fear,
Is this the end I see in this bucket?

A look I could barely recognize,
The face is not just rough but also hungry,
Locked-down by COVID-19; threatened by hunger.
Yet that man on the TV does not consider me vulnerable.
Painful but true. I am just one of many others.

My eyes clouds helplessly,
I choose not to fight it shedding itself,
Freely they make their way into the bucket,
Then, suddenly on impact, they alter the portrait,
Leaving beautiful ripple behind them.

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