When the Virus Comes

When the virus comes,

Talking heads on television screens

will tell you to abandon ship. 

To drown yourself in a sea of isolation. 

Submerge homes in lysol wipes and hand sanitizer.

Engulf body in face mask and plastic glove

until it becomes second nature.

They will tell you to turn your kitchen into a panic room,

basement into fallout shelter.

Instruct you to grab everything you can,

while you still can.

They will say

the shelves at the stores are empty,

and not realize they are also talking about you.

They will preach from the gospel of quarantine.

Shout parables of

“Thou Shalt wash thine hands.”

“For God so loved the world

he socially distanced himself

from the very people he wanted to save.”

It will make you wonder how a hero

or a government

Can rescue someone they can’t even touch.

When the virus comes,

you will kiss your lover like it’s the last time,

because maybe it is.

You will dance on timelines

like decades are stuck on the balls of your feet.

Sing like a quartet is trapped in your throat.

Laugh like this is the last time you know what joy feels like,

because maybe it is.

And today that will be more than enough.