7pm

7pm appears on the stovetop clock

and the watch on father's wrist.

And Notre Dame swings its bell

and car alarms go off on purpose.

And children scream in thanks out their patio doors

and their grandparents clang their pasta pots.

No.

It's not a New Years celebration.

It's not 12am on the first day of January.

It's every spring day from March through April.

Hot or chilling.

Pouring or shining.

7:01 appears on the stovetop clock.

Father lowers his accessorized arm.

The bells slow to a halt.

Converters click play to resume paused news.

The curve is not flattening but

dominating.

We are not paying attention.

We are struggling.

I sit in a white towel after my hot shower

on my bed in my own room.

Full, eating more to fulfill my extraordinary appetite,

complaining about slow internet.

Repugnant.

Here I am, feeling bad for myself, ourselves,

for having peace and quiet

under the roof that remains

above our privileged scalps.

While there are those

who may not have that bed,

that roof, those full tummies,

those loved ones around.

There are those with empty pockets,

and hollowed hearts.

There are those with marks

on the bridge of their noses

and palms of their cheeks.

Red

of colour and fluster.

Anxiety and bravery

shooting outwards from every pore.

Fighting, fighting hard,

against an odious beast; a coward

who strangles in hiding.

There are those who sit,

sit bare and drowning,

at a loss for oxygen in their own damp bodies.

Alone.

"We must be strong", they say.

"We're all in this together", they cry.

And they. Are. Right.

We have to disintegrate our differences,

listen carefully and participate.

Tonight, tomorrow, into temporary eternity,

at 7pm.