A.H. Scott: 100,000+

 

Oh, I’m sorry if the number crimps your style

They are just souls of the departed

Oh yeah, just statistics in a ledger that runs red with their blood and our salty tears

We won’t forget them

Yet, you never acknowledge their existence

Let that number sink in for a while!

They’re gone now, but that’s not why you have a furrowed brow

Banner of best econ in history has dissipated from your craven clasp

Even as each one of them take their final gasp

Efficiency experts in Hades tout the time is right to kick open the doors of business to start the machine of industry again

Referencing the workforce as human capital stock, those in towers of ivory frivolously mock

Lessening this tragedy in terms of decimals and cents

Nary is a word of lament

Push, push, push won’t be easy for all of us to heed

Cynics might scoff at the naked two-step of greed

100,000 lives and counting

Coronavirus’ toll is mounting

Keepin’ your distance is what the Docs say

Yet, all which any of us can do when they slip away is pray

Covering one’s face assists in mitigation

But, some think they are above the fray of the citizenry to lead by example

They get on television and preen and pout their bleached vision

100,000

Yeah, that is a quantity

But, damnit it’s more than that – its’ human quality

Quality of flesh, blood, dreams and life were theirs once

Now, we who remain can’t even kiss their foreheads to say a final goodbye

They are not digits crimping a bureaucrat’s agenda

All they were we can remember

Beyond the spotlight that certain persons straddle with such soulless desperation

The souls of these Americans exhibit lives lived and loved to those touched by them

Less than a quarter of a year has amassed a horrendous record that some are attempting to ignore

Optics of the obvious tide of sorrow cannot be wished away

Closing one’s eyes and acting as if what’s happening exposes that rotten core

Turn the page and reopen America to make it yesterday once more

But, not this time

Bluebird bluster and any prophylactic concoction you can muster will not keep the spirits of 100,000 coming within a grasped few winks in your nightmare’s view

In day, in night the fallen will forever follow you

Even with the hallowed position you were entrusted with, you haven’t a clue

Who were they?

They are us

Who are we?

We are the bullhorn of their memory never to be silenced  

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