Echoes

Rush hour moves 
like a Sunday drive
replacing the memory 
of silent skies,
while ghostly walks
echo the whispers,
from drawn shades 
and dimmed fixtures,
echo the whispers 
of bills we can’t meet
of worst case scenarios 
and the weight that they bring
to empty pockets and
empty eyes on screens,
empty hearts that listen
to empty guarantees,
echo the whispers
of Nana’s novenas
echo the whispers
of the little one’s prayers
for an end to tapped elbows
and his parents’ despair
for an end to this distance
from teachers who dare 
to keep him engaged
in subjects that mean 
nothing
in a world with no
answers to make clear
when an end can come
to unfathomable days 
where all we hear
are whispers
and their echoes
​of despair.

Published 10/02/2020
ChicagoWrites.org
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