The Pandemic Stole My Magic Hour

The poison in the air gnawed
through the time inexorably
my magic hour is now truncated

the wise and esteemed could not
tell us when the rot would end
what would remain of my last hour

The sun did peep after a while
warily, seemingly chastened
sniffing for the evil in the air

But the glisten is gone, the gold
the sun throws at all it sees
during that magical hour

rooftops and cars, boats at sea
and the irises of children
that glow is now wan and cautious

Unlike the sun, I will, with
what little is left of my hour
with a last and deeply drawn gasp

make a stab at reddening
the sky, those frozen ships
and quietly passing gulls

paint the faces of the lovers
watching from the shore
before sinking into the sea.