In The Days Of The Plague

When every day is Sunday morning

and none of the bells are ringing

and all the inhabitants are inside praying

to some unseen god that offers no relief

from their ongoing sorrow

then you know that these must be the days of the plague.

No sooner does one citizen of the village enter his home

than another body is carried outside to be watched by all

from eyes at windows up and down the streets.

On days like this when the dead get more attention

than the living, who can blame them

for their rocking, their counts of the rosary,

all their prayers and superstitions?

All eyes turn inward as the dead count goes on.