Seven p.m.

Every evening at seven p.m.

As dusk

delves

in —

the city, in muted mourning all day,

roars to life.

Our hearts swell with the sound.

Whoops and hollers from people on their balconies

and an old man banging his tin pan, alone on his tarred roof

Proof

of his daily devotion

released from his isolation, relief in their cheers

A church for our fears

Contained in the buildings on this brown city block.

it gets louder every night.

The hashtag is thanking healthcare heroes

but with every wave of sound, every whistle, every shout, every decibel sent out

i know it’s more than gratitude.

it’s an affirmation, confirmation that another day has passed

and we, we thankful few

are still alive —

We’re still here.