love poem on a monday morning: pandemic poem #3
Praise be to the leftover night and to the sun itching to rise. Praise be to the ones who woke up tired sitting here with coffee about to rise. Praise be to the babies and youth coiled in their blankets dreaming with their fists raised. Praise be to the ones zipped in tents layers upon layers upon layers to raise the heat. Praise be to the gloved hands that heal at all hours and praise be to the thermometer that’s numbers do not rise. Praise be to all those who didn’t sleep terrified of the mistakes they made worried the cost may rise. Praise be to genius tapped out on keyboards sung out in songs written out in documents praise be to the people organizing the people who will rise.
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