By Geralyn Hesslau Magrady

Rush hour moves

like a Sunday drive

replacing the memory

of silent skies,

while ghostly walks

echo the whispers,

from drawn shades

and dimmed fixtures,

echo the whispers

of bills we can’t meet

of worst case scenarios

and the weight that they bring

to empty pockets and

empty eyes on screens,

empty hearts that listen

to empty guarantees,

echo the whispers

of Nana’s novenas

echo the whispers

of the little one’s prayers

for an end to tapped elbows

and his parents’ despair

for an end to this distance

from teachers who dare

to keep him engaged

in subjects that mean


in a world with no

answers to make clear

when an end can come

to unfathomable days

where all we hear

are whispers

and their echoes

of despair.