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Sonnet of the WeekMay 23, 2020

On the Occasion of One Hundred Thousand Deaths

The number pains my eyes, my ears, my heart,
Each one’s a person—a daughter or son,
A husband, a wife—too soon to depart.

When life’s just numbers, the culture has died.
There’s no use citing “acceptable loss.”
For the good of Dow Jones, we are fed lies,
Evil that springs from a mind at a loss.

There was a time, one night in the City,
I met this man who would make himself king.
Even then, he was looked on with pity,
Cold lucre, for him, was just everything.

If child is father to the man, indeed,
It behooves all Creation to pay heed.

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