800 people died in New York today,
but I soaked beans for chili and watered my plants.
Looked at my hands
that are two years too early to help
(or maybe I’m just too scared)
and put on tea to boil
for the third time today.
My white coat is stuffed in my backpack,
pockets still with crumpled papers
and marking pens
and thoughts of my patients
while the world ends around me.
Cried three times today,
but there’s nothing to grieve
except being too early.
White coat too short
for mask marks struck across my face.
I say it’s better this way.
I say “I’m a walking fomite, anyways.”
(Or maybe I’m just too scared.)
