Dread sleuths in even on these most beautiful of days
When you declare, good morning, spring, good morning, May
When you reach for the pitcher – but suddenly hesitate
Was it wiped clean, from end to end, disinfected enough?
Forgive me, but its curving handle was so glassy and bright
And I reached for it, quickly, like an insect to the light.
Yes, it was probably safe, all good, fine, all right
However, what about the counter on which it sits
Still strewn with bodies of the virus?
Might a single one of them, wounded, still survive
And stirred by these dappled rays of the sun
Suddenly, it’s alive, and rises, aiming at your thumb
And your other fingers as they butter your muffin
Or it strikes at the heel of your other hand
That one soldier might have in it just enough life
Like the wounded enemy in the battle scene
To get you while you pour the coffee and the cream.
But, no, you must eliminate such old movie thoughts
In your cleaning and your wiping you must trust
Or every morning it will be like this, breakfast with the virus
Ted Littelford