Pandemic Poems - APRIL 2020
Meditation on a Medical Percentage Point
The statistical tsunami of medical numbers floods the mental sanctuary and razes the grid of implication, runs riot over common order like drug thugs on the border who know no boundary except what a gun will provide. Data piles up like so much junk. Facts float and sink, a spinning miasma on the tide ebbing into an ocean of ignorance, unruly, worthless, leveled. The riverbanks of understanding do not withstand the onslaught any more than a border withstands white-collar criminals and contrabandistas. We live in terror of the percentile, the weight of the smallest digit to the right of a meaningful period, the next mean deviation invading our home, know the waves that lap at the doorsteps of consciousness erode semblance and serve as purveyors of terror, digitized to significance. We cannot make sense of percents, of distribution curves of horror, so succumb to chum with the nickel bag dealer of hope who gives us better than even odds to escape the block that we cannot leave.
©2020 Jeff Burt
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