island retirement

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

~kat

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.