THERE ARE strange things done 'neath the midnight sun by those men who moil for gold.
Even stranger things done by your Loyal Trisec after three hours of fitful sleep.
Written at 2:51am on this day, 3 April 2020
The sun rises, yet it gives no light. It is bright without warmth.
The sullen headlines cry despair, yet the news is not new.
Every day feels like those places we used to read about.
Soviet, Eastern, Oppressive.
In the distant past, three weeks ago, we used to look at places and say
'Somebody is having it worse'. They say that about us now.
Work, once a chore, is now a fond memory.
Soon, a decent meal or a roof overhead may be memories, too.
How did our parents do it? My father has a boy's memory of war.
Eleven years old when Berlin fell.
Mum, just a babe in '42, still saved grandpa from the Cocoanut Grove.
Our lives pause for weeks and we complain.
My son was once a Freshman. His choice can't be done online.
No dorm can keep them; huddled homes the only place to go.
I saw shuttles explode, buildings collapse, and New Orleans drown.
These children have no reference.
There is no leadership. A rudderless state drifts with no purpose.
Fifty different responses where United States once stood.
Online only vitriol and the occasional word from Jesus.
We wait for the next day of damage control.