To rise

The sun never fails to rise, somehow
things feel the same unless I lock
eyes with news alerts, Facebook feeds.

For a moment I wake and forget
what others think about constantly,
alarmingly, : how will I work? how will I eat?

The sky is dark grey today
after four days
of hot sunshine.

In spring the forecast says snow,
the news says more deadly
than the flu.

There are memes and jokes,
charts and bleak, colorful statistics.
Grave realities: Empty
classrooms, disappearing wages.

I wish for the return of I-25 rush hour
and I-70 slowdowns, a cluster of metal
signaling a return to once was.

I wash my hands tightly — little
bubbles of soap squirm helplessly
between the web of skinny fingers

while a woman tries to slow down
her breathing, counting a small Checkings
against a large rent.

Mental math disarming
mental health, everything
always coming down to numbers.

The sun never fails to rise
as she is brought
to her knees.