The quiet is too great, precious city.
Each day seems New Year’s morning
where unneeded traffic lights blink as
Hopperesque streets endure fog until
sun brings the afternoon’s pastel glow.
Commerce absent, the golden promise
dwindles as parks fill with the fragile
and destitute. A ceaseless hangover,
testimony to disease not celebration,
endures. There is nothing to salve
my eyes from graffiti on boarded up
stores and unmoored people asleep
on your streets, this fierce epidemic
surges unbested, erasing normal ways.
Memories of street protest, love and
joy are chimera. A draining mournful
inwardness has replaced your vibrancy.
Uncertainty crushes spirits of those
unable to kindle hope and possibility.
Impatience haunts others who cherish
all that is free and open in your being.
I hope this terrible waiting ends, it is
too soon for you to be locked in amber.
What a perfect description of how dismal we feel locked into this ever present pandemic. Truly mournful! Beautifully written!