Balcony, Truman Street, Key West POSH: Port Out, Starboard Home Some prophet of triteness imagined luxury thus, but soon the anagram became an adjective, or a semanticized sound: a fluffy cushion’s lust to shield us. Even asses must hover to live ideally. On my Truman balcony I watch Conchers pass, masked for plague although alone on near empty streets. They march or ride bikes, their gait patient and thorough on the en-soi promenade. Shutters and quiet have calmed their famous boister into pews. Masks to hoard illness become blighted ritual; cotton armor pretends a new civility. Corona’s face crown gags…