When I was eight,  
The Great Recession began.  
During it,  
I heard a line
that floated
off the page of a poem
and into me
“We hope the world survives.”
– Hope –  
I remember that
and the nights I spent  
sat up  
on the uncomfortable  
wheezy wooden floor
of my home
constructing a new one  
from Legos,
where I could see  
by way of a light switch
not a Coleman lantern.  
Where I could eat
by way of a real stove top
not a portable one.  
You’d think  
that I was camping,  
not sweating  
in the stagnant air
of a house  
devoid of power.  
Now,  
a virus moves
unseen among grass
beneath out feet,  
flirts between the vacancy  
of embraces
and  
the fear of a handshake.  
We speak words
underneath masks
and hope –  
that this,
will be over soon.