Thursdays

Positions held at 7:57pm,

wooden spoons lying in wake,

pans ready at hand,

pots lifted like swords,

your unscathed fingers stand ready for war,

in the midst of death, we barricade the streets

with our shrieks and with our roars,

see, we swore to compensate for the silence

laying

thick in the air

and although we can’t replace the space left by

death

all the _______ and _______

that

we’ll continue to slip through, years after this

mess,

we’ll still try, regardless, to remind the birds,

the twigs,

the earth,

anyone

who dared to forget,

that although the sun may have no one to kiss,

although it feels like a November night held

hostage

rather than the breath

of summer,

and although we couldn’t find common ground

with

boris and brexit and burqas,

regardless, every Thursday,

we vow to decorate the streets

in enough joy for the weak,

and despite us being shadows lurking in the

depths of the dark, for now,

here, there is still proof of life,

and every Thursday,

we promise

to compete with the sun,

to upstage its shine,

and on our down days,

we’ll morph into rainbows,

always finding a way to bring light.