The neighborhood is quiet today.
The streets empty as grocery store shelves—
dusty voids where once stood an abundance
of paper goods and cleaning products.
So many choices
taken away.
I stand at the window—
stare at a still life
created by a mad artist
who has twisted the mundane
into a scene of mute horror.
Homes turned to fortresses—
or prisons depending who you ask.
Who is there to ask?
Questions filling the spaces between walls,
the distance between lockdown and freedom—
uncertainty a flood and we’re all drowning.
I wash my hands again
and wonder how many lives
have been washed away.
Every day the numbers grow—
death hoarding souls.
Every day the shelves empty—
souls hoarding fear.
I think of watching the news
but don’t turn the television on.
Instead, I close my eyes—
hold on to the small peace I find
hidden in the darkness.
The neighborhood is quiet today.
Amid the silence, a lone bird sings.
