Old Man in a Chair

Spring, 2020

legs wrapped around my kitchen chair

          heart pounding

                     hands trembling

images parade across the screen

a bad trip

          without the acid

body bags

          stacked in hospital halls

                     thrown into refrigerated trucks

                               ditch witch digging mass graves

I rip my eyes from the screen

          need to see this horror

                     for it to be real

mask pulled on

          to blend with the essential

                     walk like a zombie? or

                               scuttle like a scared bug?


wish i had worn sneakers

          footsteps bounce eerily back to me

                     few cars to mask the sound

at the hospital

          parking lot empty

                     no refers here

                               no lines of meat wagons

the guards won’t let me in

          through the glass front, an empty foyer

                     staff playing games in admittance

                               backlit by a lonely corridor

Where are the bodies?

down the street at the funeral parlor

                           a man polishes the bumper of a hearse

                             in an empty parking lot

                                  no mourners this morning

Where are the bodies?

at the morgue uptown

          no line of coroner’s vans

                     just one van

                               unloading one expired soul

Why the masks?

Why the lockdowns?

Why the warp speed jab?

“Where are the bodies?” I shout.

the answer leaks from a darkened doorway

          where sits an old man in a chair

“When the shots roll out the bodies will fall,”

          he says

hearing this I hastened home

          fearing the jab

                     more than the disease.

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