After the fever

After four months of hell, the fever withdrew deep within,

Past the point of no return, and now it was impossible

to remember how it had filled Earth,

like a balloon gorging with fresh air.

Far ahead the traffic thinned out – so we sat

on the front porch enjoying the silence.

We listened to Edith Piaf press her voice,

till it quivered against the microphone.

The heavy book I held between my hands

was there to stay, never opened;

it was there only to keep me dry.

When the last song ended, the notes dropped

from their grandstand back into the soil.

Then early in the day the sky grew noticeably darker.

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