always wanted to retire on an island, not exactly what i had in mind but gotta give it to this place, if disappearing is the goal, it fits the bill, it’s a bit crowded and noisy, but the city gave me my own four walls, a fine pine box actually, kinda’ reminds me of my first apartment, damn, but we were cramped in that place, walls thin as paper, no room to move, the family packed in like sardines, like this place where they stack us three deep...some of the locals say this place has been around for 150 years, there’s folks here from 1918, the Spanish Flu, from that Aids Crisis, and Yellow Fever, this place has some history, more than a million souls rest here they say and now me, plopped here like a time capsule from 2020, from COVID-19, whose time ran out, a day past two weeks sprung from the morgue to make room for more folks with no one to claim ‘em, not that i don’t have nobody, my people, they live out of state, and i didn’t tell ‘em i was sick, didn’t want to worry ‘em, you know humph, wonder how long it will take ‘em to miss me, maybe they’ll find me, maybe not, doesn’t matter much now, peace out as they say and hey, wear a mask
For NaPoWriMo2021 Day 8 Prompt: Today, I’d like to challenge you to read a few of the poems from Spoon River Anthology, and then write your own poem in the form of a monologue delivered by someone who is dead. My subject is inspired by the Potter’s Field on Harts Island in NYC, now being used to bury the unclaimed victims of COVID-19. Read this NY Times article.
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