Hammer strikes flicker—once twice

Hammer strikes flicker—once, twice,

a dull thud echoed down empty streets.

Neighbors mount plywood patches,

a rough weave of grain and nail,

a crooked shield against the dark.

Rough edges dig into palms,

splinters catch beneath cuticles,

like small reminders of fragility.

Night swallows the cracked glass,

and plywood stays—silent, stubborn,

heartbeats nailed against the wind.

It doesn’t keep the storm out—

just buys a pause,

a moment to breathe through splinters.