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Poem

The long flow of lines
from corner to corner
from tomb to the tomb.
To be marred by taint
like bat in the sun
and child in the womb
the tenuous flesh, unknown alone
foo far from comfort, too close
to death, as earth's filament spin
a new tragedy, the market suddenly
is an alien space thick woven in suspense:
this virus does not discriminate among shoppers
so be careful not tripping over
its red carpet.
Has the end of world come?
Can we rise up against it?
Or sign a peace treaty with it?
The dead keep piling under the onslaught
we're in retreat.
Skipping the market pierces my mind as our 
progress to entrance screeches to a halt by
a coughing sound from behind, turning
our lines into a tavern brawl,
like a new herd community withstanding
a hurricane without winds and
forest fire without flames.
Has God appointed it to put us to the test?
Entering, the market looks completely dead
as vibrant as a funeral parlor
with shoppers looking warily, breathing heavily under their masks,
humanity's new visage, crushed by fear, and terror -- 'to cannon 
all men are equal'.
Our new mantra, the three Ds: death, doldrums, and defeat.
Exiting the twilight zone, my mundane activity a harrowing, heroic effort,
bursting with hallucination. Driving past the stoic faces in the line,
it's fear peaking not the virus.

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