On a drizzly morning walk I stopped to let a hearse go by,
its pitch-black paint sweating polish, and as I waited
for the procession I thought about who profits from tragedy,
the business of loss, and who profits no matter what,
A friend texted to say it’s irresponsible to protest during a pandemic. All those people
crowded together become vectors for the virus, which doesn’t care about race. I hadn’t
thought of Covid-19 as post-racial, the enlightened bug.
I am a wealthy god who cares about the poor.
I’ve built them shopping malls to worship me,
paid for stained-glass windows to let in a little light
filtered in my image, crafted search engines to ask
for things I am too wise to give away: