Sorry, Dr. Fauci

I sit in the desk chair,
upright, pushed back
a bit from the desk,
legs crossed, feeling
significant in some
sense because of
my posture in this
time of microbes
when feeling sign-
ificant at all is
significant. My elbow
is on the desk; I
rest my chin and
cradle it in my
hand not unlike
Rodin’s Thinker.
I run my index finger
across my pursed
lips, under my nose
and push my glasses
back up the bridge
of my nose. I do the
things that Dr. Fauci
says not to do in this
age of anxiety and
social distancing. It
comes naturally, habit-
ually, to me, this pose,
as I ponder writing a
poem. In a little while,
I will get up and wash
my hands and face be-
fore kissing my wife
and petting the dog and
then I, a somewhat dis-
obedient writer will go
back to the poem. The
dog just came in and
demanded a pet, this
before I had a chance
to wash my hands, but
I did use my other hand.
Still, sorry, Dr. Fauci.

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