Evening:
empty streets and empty hearts,
all seems silent, eerily still,
each house a silhouette,
a chink of light the only sign of life,
curtains pulled tightly shut,
as if to keep out the virus,
keep out the world.
And inside each house,
people are going stir crazy,
hoping and praying,
arguing and weeping,
and worrying.
I reach my house,
see its chink of light at the window,
and...
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