With the second wave of corona,
I stop counting days.
I insert a new pause in my dreams,
adding to the old obstacles:
closed borders and no money.
With the increasing numbers
of positive cases and deaths,
anxiety sneaks under my skin,
bites at my heart.
I feel it beating, beating, beating:
fast and edgy.

Through my clouds of fear,
the swing between
lockdown and release,
my fear of tomorrow
and the confusion of the young man
standing next to his cart,
selling scarves and hats despite the danger
because he has to eat tomorrow,
I try to find a distraction
with something I love.

Sitting at home
(since we can't go out after 8 p.m.),
the electricity playing hide and seek
and the drone still buzzing
(immune from the virus),
I put my headphones,
I close my eyes
and dance with Britney.
I think Rihanna is the sexiest woman alive,
but Britney is a better dancer

As illness rages,
our broken economy bleeding,
the news ever more toxic,
I thank Britney.
Dancing makes me stronger

I will dance in front of my enemies,
including this new one added to the list.
I know, Michael*, they still don't care about us.
But we still dance.

*Refers to Michael Jackson's song, "They Don't Care About Us"