When nothing happens anymore

In all these weeks, we’ve made homes of our couches;
I’m at my window today (again), the couch now warm

after eight small hours of sitting. Curtains rolled up,
dead ladybugs fall ominously in my lap; I look at

the street (bleak), the trucks made into coffins,
running in the dark of day, in silence. We now live

in altering zones of safety, coloured to signify the streets
named (now) quietly after dead bodies, nobody there

anymore. When we go to the vendors, masked and not
breathing, ask for things from half a dozen feet, nobody

smiles for us; even back in the streets we are machines
(only) surviving until we die. When this ends, there

might be no more, but if there’s going to be a last man,
he might do nothing, or pray; or simply denounce god

in one of these very streets

Jayant Kashyap