Called Contagion

The ape's not in the forest now,
He muses as he moves along
Another sterile corridor. An
Airport lounge, a hotel room,
And this, the worst, a hospital,
A fortress built to keep the
World out, all life, all light,
All sounds and odors banished
With the air, a place made
Dead to keep his fellow apes
Alive, and he is in it, at its service,
Showing off the implements
With which what lives, here
Called contagion, can be wiped
Away. He makes his pitch,
Then doubles back, the corridor,
The hotel room, the lounge.
He drives toward his home,
His car closed up, the air
Conditioned. Once inside
The house, his wife informs him
That their dinner's ready. Closer,
Not quite in the forest, he takes off
His shoes so he can feel what's on
The kitchen floor, and sits down
On a chair to eat, choosing not
To go and wash his hands.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 71 times
Written on 2015-09-02 at 17:31

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text