The Third Week in Lent
The Chill
Duane Hudson Reid
The eerie stillness of the moment
compels me to grab my mask
to go outside and see
distorted sounds absorb the streets
protruding, perverse words swarm like locusts
air pollution is toxic
liquid particles hijack streams
Non-stop bad news invokes
reminiscing of grandma rocking in her lazy boy
chair
clutching her sore, twisted knees
watching soaps on tv
to pass the time
to occupy her mind
bound at home
with nothing to do
but chew
watch
and wait
Smoke is rising
confused words exude
mixed signals promote fantasy
contorted, distorted politicking
feverish realities
swing low, the new strange fruit
is
blue tape
hand protection gloves
church online
school online
virtual reality
no contact delivery
still
shattered, stained-glass remains
white sheets pulled all the way up over open
eyes, closed skies
I can’t breathe
ICU
I see quarantines
jam-packed hospitals
caretakers, pushed-to-the-brim
people are sighing, alone
people are dying, alone
bodies are lying, alone
waiting for the curve to flatten
As the world turns
horror scenes spike
the Dow Jones drops
the feds can’t print enough healing
the government can’t give away enough cheese
silenced weeping, asymptomatic fears
muzzled voices wheezing
empty shelves?
empty streets?
globally
humans wander six feet apart
haphazardly wondering
The eerie stillness of the moment
compels me to go outside to hear
listening to ancestral tongues
stiff shells
fresh, rich soil smells
lilies bloom over perishable remains
forgotten souls still hum
a timeless tune
musing on a thought
thoughts we all think
behind closed doors
we reflect
quietly
about the what
the when
the why
what if I test positive?
when will a vaccine be made?
why is this happening?
this bugs me
so I sanitize my mind
wash my hands
and chill
Duane Reid
Voorhees Township, NJ
