4.27.24: American Blindness

Measuring tentative giant steps in the mileage
of problems instead of blessings, We don’t fear 
the reaper until he comes for us, from inside 
the vertical mirror, wearing the disposable paper
mask of many faces with eyes as vacant as 
defunct mall parking lots. We recognize ourselves 
and look away, growing old under the glowing 
red shadows of exit signs as we step into a world 
of all blues:  Lapis lazuli skies looming over 
periwinkle houses planted on lush lots of lawns 
potted with ultramarine leopard lilies; yet, our eyes 
are closed, like unread coffee table books; We 
neither feel the skin color of each other’s pain, nor 
do we taste the texture of anyone else’s humanity.