We met last year in the lonely library lot;
it was early Covid times and we knew so little

but Roberta wanted eggs; I had them to sell.
Awkward it was, no thought of masks—those little

things that tip weighty scales. So we exchanged:
envelope hidden in a tissue, wry little

smile, the hope we wouldn’t get sick. At two arms’
lengths, eggs slipped from me to her. In time, little

losses grew bigger, smiles disappeared behind 
masks or into loneliness lifted only by little

framed faces on screens. After a year and two 
shots—mask and vaccine record in tow—a little

awkward still, Nancy chances a party. Finds Roberta!
We hug, talk, laugh—pleasures no longer so little.