in which the Corona virus proliferates
There’s no more news. A single fear defines
the headlines, conversations and our thoughts.
There’s little else to make of the reports
than wait till some statistic just declines.
There’s no more life, for we, to save the lives
of weaker folk, have given up for now
our Friday GTs, self-conceit (and how)
as well as stress and our entire lives.
And even poetry has lost its tongue –
a lack of ambiguity’s its plight.
The brutish virus is banal, no less.
No dolled up sonnet makes the dirge unsung.
That something rhymes with solace is just trite.
The silent city brings forth speechlessness.