• June 12, 2020, 9:21 a.m.
  • |
  • Public

I’m just a number,
not a person,
at least according to them.
If I die as the only one,
then it doesn’t matter.
I’m just a dot in their statistics.

If it’s me and another,
it still doesn’t matter.
Two is still considered a few,
‘though it turns us blue.

If it’s me and some others?
Well, it depends.
We’ll probably get noticed in tens,
hundreds, thousands, and more,
before they realise the horror
and start taking it seriously
and then call out for an emergency.

Better late than never?
At least it’s not their duty
to inform our grieving families
or friends who can only pray.
They can always talk to the press, the media,
saying that they’re sorry.

Once again,
I’m just a number,
a small evidence of inevitable misfortunes.
They can say it’s only one,
until the same happens to them,
way beyond their expectations,
crushing their confidence.

They can say it’s only me,
someone they don’t know,
until they suffer the same agony,
the pain, the stigma, the scrutiny,
thanks to Covid-19.
They’re worried about
not being able to get out
and do whatever the hell they like…

…until they also become numbers,
just like me,
adding more dots to the statistics,
making the frontline warriors feel sick.
Even the most careful become the company
of this mass-made misery.

Now we have more numbers
to represent humans
infected – perhaps once again – by the same virus.


No comments.

You must be logged in to comment. Please sign in or join Prosebox to leave a comment.