Mama’s
in the kitchen counting while I’m sleeping on the floor because me and the
daylight haven’t gotten along since 911.
She
comes out of the fog of social media, a place I more often than not avoid like
the plague because too many people are idiots.
There’s
something about her that has awoken a part of my hibernating self that I swore
I’d never bring to the surface again.
We
must lower our guards if we ever dare to pass go and collect two hundred
dollars
Problem
is everyday there’s a million new reasons to get into our hazmat suits, board
up the windows and never come out of our dens
Encased
in a cozy blanket of “Being and Nothingness” the hurt you’re experiencing cuts
through any nausea left dripping from the dagger plunged into your immortal
sadness
I’ve
always been a poet, a Jew and a Sicilian, even before my parents saw my cousin
Lori and planned on having a baby
No
one’s quite hearing the tolling bells of Covid-19 perhaps because staring into
the abyss of our own mortality is too heavy a lift and threatens to break us
into a million pieces
My
essence spied your essence from across the internet and before I knew what was
happening we were both enlightened by the swift action of God imploring us to
never stop believing in miracles.
Charles Cicirella
7/8/20
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