7:41 a.m. Rockland, Maine

The dark morning softens on the eastern horizon

stretched thin by streaks of rose, of amber

reflected in the cresting ocean below.

Gold hued streets are undisturbed

by traffic or by footfall, a silent homage

to the smothering shroud of contagion.

Windows here and there illuminate, shadows

moving across the drawn curtains, reflecting

the townsfolk who will not emerge again today,

who will not mingle at Penny’s over skillet eggs,

crisp hash browns and the City’s Best coffee…

who will not leave their Press Herald for the next

to spin a chrome-clad seat at the counter, to scan

the stained plastic menu as if looking for something new.

The fishermen have fled the poisoned land hours before

to break the glowing water with ropes, lines, and nets,

leathered hands tossing buoys in measured succession

their every inhale purified by the salty, uninfected spray.

The evening light’s westward retreat will guide them back

past unmoved cars, past closed signs hanging askew

behind glass store doors, past the Cinemagic marquee

urging Stay Safe, Stay Home to those already there,

huddling with their others over steaming bowls of chowder.

12:25 p.m. New York, New York

The scattered clouds break up the midday sun,

casting unnoticed patterns on the concrete sidewalks

gold reflected in the mirrored tower sides stretching below.

A few masked fugitives rush warily down the streets

not pausing by the Sale signs plastered across the

darkened Bloomingdale windows and Prado doors;

not turning into the daily Starbucks to challenge

their familiar barista with practiced combinations.

An ambulance surges unimpeded down the avenue

and each eye follows its path with uncommon dread

as if they know it carries someone familiar away.

All of the city’s energy explodes in the red crossed

white buildings; fluorescent lights bouncing harsh

against the chrome rails of gurneys full with the stricken.

The exhaustion seeps through the plastic shields, the

eyes begging for a pause in the carnage, a chance to

share some good news just one time to a family

forced to wait and to not be there, to not hold hands

as a beloved struggle for their last mechanical breaths.

Too often, the plea unrequited; too often the dead replaced

too soon in the next room, the next bed, the next minute.

The sunlight will not guide them home, just more fluorescent

lights streaming from curled fixtures lining empty streets.

Home to huddle with arms wrapped around shaking knees,

gasping and forced alone to protect their own beloved.

6:54 p.m. Franklin, Nebraska

The John Deere’s shadow stretches across the ruler-straight lines

of laden plants, of burnt-sienna earth turned over and broken;

streams of sharp gold hinting at God’s light cast behind the clouds.

An evening’s mist suspends above the crops, warning of the day’s

coming end, a call for the missing tenders to complete their work.

The hulking, bright colored vehicles are silent, their blades still,

their shoulder-high impasto wheels slightly sunken in the soft soil.

The eighteen wheelers are shuttered behind towering garage doors

their engines cold, their drivers sick abed, fevered and uncertain

as their prescribed loads lie unharvested and rotting in the rows.

The farmhands stare out curtained windows at their glowing fields

planning the tools they’ll use to plow the ripening vines back under,

returning months of hard work back unpaid into the unmoved earth.

Downstate, the father watches the sun’s slow fade in his windshield

inching towards the piled crates, calculating his pace and odds,

wonders how to break the news to her if the food runs out before

his turn arrives, wondering what the next sun’s rising will bring.

Empty trunk or full, dappled lights of unfamiliar roads lead only home

past shuttered markets, past empty stands, past houses of neighbors

asking the same questions, dreading the same rising of the morning light.

7:23 p.m. San Diego, California

Crimson shards flash across the darkening waters, the white caps

pitching towards the windswept beach and oddly empty boardwalks,

glowing unappreciated in the setting sun’s golden final light.

Beneath the boardwalk, a scattered driftwood fire crackles discreetly,

reflecting on the haggard faces huddled in the warm aurora, unmasked

and uncommitted to the Governor’s recent social distance orders.

Feral neighbors, emboldened by the sudden absence of bicycles and

roller skates echoing across the slatted wood, lurk at the perimeter

calculating their odds of food and warmth from the crouching band,

unsettled by the inexplicable abandonment of their artificial woods.

A rubber-suited surfer silently paddles out to meet the rising waves

silhouetted in the dusk, she leaps up and balances, knees bent

arms outstretched, synched with the rolling water, pointed to the shore.

Resting on the unmarked sands, the unmistakable absence of audience;

the silence beside her brings an odd chill under the protective shell.

The walk back to her car feels longer than usual, the evening darker

as she loads her board and drives the avenues to shelter again alone.

The homeless cadre notes her departure silently, with more than one

wishing they had chanced an encounter with hand outstretched.

Waterside wastebaskets and fast food dumpsters are barren now

the grudging remnants of In & Out burgers, fish tacos, and Fiji waters

gone with the tourists and casual beachgoers in the dangerous times.

9:41 p.m. Washington, D.C.

The day’s soft lights long past, fluorescent fixtures reflect harder beams

off marble floors, leather-clad desks and framed autographs along the wall

illuminating the unmasked suited conversations, the scrawled ink on papers.

Huddled in the open room, calculating the cost of money taken and spent

in votes accrued, in power held and opportunity found, in bartered favors.

An unopened folio to the side with the day’s collected deaths by district

its information echoed in the flickering crawl below the newscaster’s face

on unheeded screens to the east and west of the plush, creaking chairs.

Despite the lapsing of the sun, heavy drapes pulled tight as if to shield

the occupants from a too-bright glare (perhaps a camera’s flash?) instead

withhold the light internally from spilling out on the empty streets below,

from disrupting the almost perfect darkness of the Capital city night.

Zeroes spill out over the edges of the pencil’s markings by the pound,

billions shift from side to side as the soft hands shuffle the decks anew

crafting unseen doors and hidden windows in the language of the laws.

Practiced wordsmiths sit aside the suits, taking notes on technology,

preparing the intentional lack of light to be broadcast in the morning.

One of the few opens the drapes and looks out at the curled fixtures

casting circles of light on the silent streets, on a huddled homeless,

remembers for a moment his grandfather fisherman, his niece the nurse,

as he watches an empty truck rattle past his block and out of sight.

He looks at his glass, takes a sip, and returns to his chair with a smile.

11:57 p.m. Bedside, a prayer…

A sacred light must come anew

a sun must on the morrow rise

to pierce the drapes that hide the few,

to fire hearts and open eyes

The politics of blue and red

Must be banished from the moment be.

Together we must forge ahead

Toward brighter days for all to see

In darkness are too many here

Who have no blame for lack of light

They cling to hope, but battle fear

They crave the sun but see the night

Dear Lord, we ask that you inspire

Some leaders held in honor’s sway.

Please give to them a vision higher

And strength for them to win the day