In springtime, now, when kings go off to war,
We've parked cool mobile morgues on river's edge,
Collected swabs, dressed up, ignored the czar.
First harm no one! We're bent to keep our pledge.
Our hands rubbed raw, our masks from yesterday,
We focus still on what is pressing now
And watch the lines go straight and flat and grey
Just like this April sky's relentless vow.
These people, when they die they die alone,
Though some do get the chance if time allows
For us to dial their next of kin at home,
To say goodbye, to give their final bows.
Easter Sunday, but round us only death,
We call the Time and watch the final breath.
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Author Notes
New York City was in a constant state of chaos and death in April, 2020. This sonnet was written from the point of view of one of those who had to continually look death in the face.
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