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I Wash My Hands
I wash my hands until they crack,
until they start bleeding.
Almost clean enough to touch.
Almost dirty enough to hold.
Fifty or so times a day, I
squirt soap on my wet palms
and rub.
Fingers interlaced,
(the man sitting in his window across the street in his undershirt takes a sip of beer)
left dorsum over right,
(the SARS-CoV-2 spike proteins evolved to effectively target a molecular feature on the outside of human cells called ACE2, a receptor involved in regulating blood pressure)
thumbs between a fist,
both hands,
(blue jays jangling sweetly in the ficus branches)
palm to palm,
(the death toll in Italy stands at 5,500)
fingers interlocked,
rotational scrubbing backwards and forwards with clasped fingers in palm,
(all residents have been told to shelter in place, to only venture out for vital services)
and then rinsing well with water.
I sanitize doorknobs and other high-touch surfaces around the house:
