This poem is for the children
whose schools have closed,
the children
who rely on whatever
their pocket change can buy them
in the cafeteria
to get them through the day.
This poem is for the people
who lived through a lifetime of war
and are as afraid of going outside
on this still spring night
as they were back then.
This poem is for every family
from my city to your city,
to every city
neither of us have ever been to
or heard of.
This poem is for the mother
who lost her job
and has to feed 3 kids.
This poem is for the boy
who searches for smiley faces
in the rain drops
sticking to his windows
even when the monsters in his head
are trying to find
their way to his eyes
and he’s alone
and the world feels fast asleep.
This poem is for
the homeless,
the scared,
the lonely.
This poem is for
the dead,
the dying,
the hungry.
This poem is for you.
This poem is for me.
If you press your hand
to your heart
I’ll press my hand
to mine.
We can both feel
the rhythm of being alive,
and that’s all the reason I need
to stay inside.
