A bed under my head, a roof o’er my feet
Cold fear, a fine mist o’er empty streets
Alone, grieving in stained pajama sheets
Wondering if the end it was a virus that led
To a half-remembered phrase, prophecy
Worn couches masquerade as deathbeds
Lives spent streaming, WiFi, windows shuttered
How worlds end, not in bangs, but whispers
11.19.19
The doctors also happen to be serial killers
Poisoning the poor while whispering
”This is good for me so it must be great for you”
11.16.19
I wrote you a love story
on a red post-it note
it was short but brilliant
though the glue failed
words tumbled in the air
with orange leaves in fall