Drive Through Ghost Town Guilt

We're somewhere close to the living side of a ghost town:
Closed shops, empty parking lots, less traffic, bold lettered
proclamations of WE'RE STILL OPEN next to
the timid We'll Get Through This Together:
Hopeful, asking for money, for help breathing.

Not all, though, maybe most
Will get through this together,
Will get to keep this as a memory,
A face mask souvenir from passing through,
Just six feet away from heavy chested ghosts.
Homes will keep standing, rent unpaid, holding
The living who breathe safe air,
Shaking their heads at their anxiety,
Laughing at the way they doubted
Their invincibility.

This, too

In the crisp new library
I looked up just as
A young woman runs her palm
Across the clear, clean glass,
Leaving a blur in her wake:
This, too, shall pass.

Skylight

Pink shingles on George St. in
Walking distance from school;
Surrounded by same aged children
And block parties with swings.
I could see clouds from my skylight
And grass from my back window
Under a red wood porch and a picnic table
Filled with friends and food.
Every winter we made tunnels
And every summer we danced in the sprinkler
I wrote stories and legends after we left-

What childhood magic this was
To protect me from truth for so long.

Life as a Yell

In nightmares-
     pulsing soundlessness
     from empty screams
  Running and tripping
              On repeat for years.

In waking-
     Constantly building life
     Into a yell:
  In writing, in poems, in sharing;
  In calling, computers, and photos
In videos, repetition:

Conversations, 6 feet away, reaching,
       with words.