in quarantine, staying at home,
seeing loved ones well past arms length,
unable to hug, to console, to comfort.
Each 24-hour span brings more death,
more frustration, more willingness for some
to simply let go of wearing masks,
not caring for the risks to others.
My eyes do not want to remember
those crowds bullying their way into a courthouse,
swastikas and guns and MAGA hats,
a protest of a sort that marks only endings,
that doesn't mean anything at all to me.
If I ever grew restive about the singular repetitious
recounting of coronavirus cases and deaths,
I never wished for this:
the death of a man, George Floyd,
at the hands, or I should say knee
of a police officer, honor bound to serve and protect.
Still home, still quarantined, now I watch flames
and crowds of protesters, heartfelt voices raised
against this cruelty, maybe manipulated by some
to violence, now an appalling nightmare
spread across our country that doesn't stop.
This was not the legacy I wished for,
this domestic war between worlds.
How will we create new beginnings,
hope for tomorrow, and trust in those young people
with visions for change.
|"Hands" by Jackson David (Pixabay)|