For Poetry Friday …
Hearing my footstep in a quiet shoe;
in the sunlight, under a skyscraper—
is a sensation hard to get used to
as I avoid unseen clouds of vapor;
expanding orbs from anonymous mouths
and noses—a creeping soft invader.
The clouds are north, I walk on the southside
or even out into the empty street—
no cars, just people struggling inside,
and me left to the sound of my own feet—
an odd out-of-rhythm drum performance
in place of melody, lyrics, and beat.
I stop; I am left with only silence
to consider a new route to get through
a city quieted by a virus.
These the steps we must take, things we must do,
but it is still odd to hear my own shoe.