Train station is lined with pear trees
Some of the old stories say good things come in threes
Well, bad things come in fours
Left, right, back and forward
If I’m not masked I’ve been warned
Business lights are on while it’s lights out in the hospitals
Meanwhile the junkyard is empty save for spray tags and tail wags
Rabbits settle into their burrow
Under the overgrowth on the crane chains
Moon wavering on the water
This has a flavoring of fall out
Between the infra and the structure
The martyrs for the cure and the puncture
Things growing over, shrouded in our sudden stumble and nature’s beckon
Empty streets tell lore of eight minutes 46 seconds and the centuries it took for the oppressors to see the dump of our created sin
In tragedy’s polluted river, we wade in
Let the tide slack
Try to let things grow back
We’re like rabbits in a junkyard.
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I’m sure there’s lots of “quarantine poems”. I’m just trying to capture the feeling of boredom and chaos that this time gives me.
Write your local government. Sign petitions. Don’t lose interest in the fight. Black lives matter, all black lives. Stay safe.
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