December in the Year of the Plague by Steve Klepetar

Today we bury the bodies.
Each one gets a little trough of earth.
Though narrow, it’s enough and will suffice.

We say what we say over graves:
useless words than rise from our mouths,
mere chimney smoke. Then we drive away,

glad we’re the ones to be alive.
We’ll go home and maybe post on Facebook,
maybe join a march. Someone must have written

a song like in the ‘60’s? We can sing it to the wind.
In the morning we wake and make coffee,
trudge back into the cold arms of an ordinary day.