Corona
       

Plague holds us in its fevered hand
until every breath becomes a tunneled prayer.

This silent sun wears a mask of clouds.
The day has run out of food.

Thoughts roll down the city street,
echo from buildings.
There is nothing to stop them.

Feet burn as though hell
licks them from beneath the pavement.

Each day we learn how many more of us
stumbled away from our bones.

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Copyright © 2021 Patty Dickson Pieczka All rights reserved
from The Bitter Oleander
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission