The Disease
Empty streets
Empty store shelves
Hands lingering at sides
The spaces between grow six feet or more
The normal mindlessness is replaced
With a steep sick tightness that grasps the throat
And strangles while you read and read and read
About how it will all grow worse
The steady desolation stretching like taut skin
Spread over dry ribs
One blow to those meager structures
And it all comes crumbling apart
What is the future but anxiety?
What is hope but a vague blur?
The sense of living in a strange time
Seeps into every breath, every tense inhalation
And it is all you can do to find normalcy
In stupid everyday things
We like the puppet show
We want it to continue
Perhaps we clasp our hands together
And look toward the sky
Sending our better wishes to the heavens
While washing our hands
A neighbor is a potential sickness
A hand a harborer of ill-will
The modern condition taken to a ridiculous extreme
Hide in your house, troglodyte
Be as scared of people as they are of you
Let us not whither further
Though whither we must
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