Say the vaccines don’t take
against some variant
and after the fourth and fifth waves
slam our surfer heads even deeper
into the sand, and the government
being the government, responds
with its regularly scheduled gaslighting,
so that in waves six and seven we’re still living
this world we’ve somehow arrived at,
where real estate developers handle long-term care
and the incredible return of investors
gets prioritized over our elders -- as if
there was a dimension in all of time and space
where that made one iota of sense --
then maybe, after rounds eight and nine
and ten blow through us, killing and maiming
while our politicians continue
to plod along the surface of the problems
like venomous, spineless sea urchins,
just maybe, after all the illness
of rounds eleven and twelve we might finally
bloodlet the teensiest tax increase from those who,
even amidst this tsunami of disease, keep demanding
blenders delivered to their homes, and with that
ratchet down the tyrrany just enough
for not every single essential mostly racialized worker
to die for absolutely no fucking reason – still,
even still, there’d be no going back,
no world where this isn’t a waste,
no reason to ever unearth
from the infinite umbrella of thought
that could justify how those in power
shouldn’t be shackled, and with their
still working lips be made to recite
the names of the people they’ve killed.