In this jungle of burning stars and broken-glass promises,
the daytime air feels like night and nighttime feels like an itch on a phantom limb,
reminding us our brains have not yet fully rewired themselves to comprehend the loss of old ways.
Everywhere I look,
small businesses burning from no customers.
“For Rent” signs as prevalent as facemasks in the supermarket.
Eviction threatened by landlord hearts too broken to house any bodies.
Oblivion scribed on the voided noise of lost neighborhood hubbub.
Each night before sleep,
I pray we may soon be paroled from these dark dreams and released onto well-lit, well-lived streets.