Pandemic

A jillion germs now smirk and grin,
grinning (like one aware he’s vicious)
at those who thought the pangolin—

scales and blood and flesh—delicious.
A jillion germs knock at our doors
around the world, both mine and yours.

I’d like to think this all fictitious.
Everybody is suspicious
of anyone who coughs or sneezes,

a protocol I think judicious.
The virus does as it damned pleases.
“Keep your distance! Don’t get near me!”

I shout inside my mind. You hear me?
I fear you and, I’m sure, you fear me.
And so they grin and so we hide

and throw away the travel guide.
Look how they smirk, those jillion germs,
knowing the battle’s on their terms.