Liturgy for a Pandemic
Each Thursday at eight, we stand at our lintels
to clap for care-workers we hope never to meet.
Behind the fence, unseen neighbours bang pots.
When the antiphon dies, I linger outside.
A blackbird trills. From the hushed street its partner answers.
In our city the pandemic spikes, aloof as the cats
who watch our prayers from behind the glass.
Matthew R Anderson April 25, 2020 Chilwell (Nottingham)
Unsettled Words 
We have about four houses on our block who come out and bang pots at 7:30. It has become a bit of a liturgy for me, and the others I assume. I hope it is shaping me in some helpful way. Some days it feels like prayer. Some days it feels like a chore. Some days I forget. But still, it matters in some way, I think.
Yes – it’s only once a week here, but very much a liturgy. Feels like a chore….sometimes prayer feels like that too, until the antiphon rescues me from having to do it for myself…