COVID

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I imagine that the leaves
Which cling to their branches
like Wigtails
Who are even braver 
in the stock-still snow
Are the winged intubated 
Who are holding on for dear life
Caught in the life and breath struggle
With the viral tempest
That wants to erase them 
from the landscape of the sky.

And I imagine 
hundreds of thousands of them
Falling to their death
Like the women of the
Burning Triangle Shirtwaist Factory
immigrants
who screamed for their lives
in the language of their Fatherland
As they leaped from autumn red windows
Their skirts billowing like failed parachutes
As they landed on the pavement below
Like shattered Schoenhut dolls 
Tearing through the life nets of
The rescuers who were unable to save them
Who later that day
carried them off to
Misery Lane to be identified by
Men and women
Friends and family
Who howled with grief 
Because they were all denied a  
Final kiss
The touch of a soft warm hand
And the chance to say goodbye.

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