Quiet Storm

Chelsea is now so horribly quiet,
the city itself feels sick.
The quiet before a hurricane or tornado,
the green sky boiling,
the wind heavy with humidity and death,
except there is no humidity,
and the skies are blue.

People are dying alone.
People are dying alone.

It’s not the quiet before the storm,
the quiet is the storm.
Sound sucked north and east to where
the wailing of sirens is non-stop,
begging for help to those in need.
People dying in a manner unaccustomed.
Reaching out to loved ones who can’t be there.

People are dying alone.
People are dying alone.

Those who never thought their lives
would be on the line,
are now on the line.
Heroes born of the Hippocratic oath,
and those who live to serve,
jump into the battle well met
to slay the beast unseen.

People are dying alone.
People are dying alone.

Those who deliver the flour
we’re using to bake our bread,
risk their lives to earn what they can.
Those who stock the shelves each night
risk their family so others can eat.
We stay quarantined within our walls
not for ourselves, but so that others stay safe, and
will not die alone.

No one should die alone.