I can’t see it, directly;
But I wonder if it’s there.
I can’t hear it, directly;
But I wonder if it’s there.
I can’t smell it, directly;
But I wonder if it’s there.
I wonder if it’s on a green sock,
I wonder if it’s even on the hands of the clock.
It could be anywhere…
On my hand,
Or on a grain of sand.
It could be the virus,
Affecting any one of us;
As sweat pours off the bridge of my nose,
Pours down my back,
And with the stench of fear,
Saturates my clothes.
But not today,
The horror of twenty-twenty is far away;
It is a summer day in two thousand-and-three,
And the monster, is OCD;
So different,
And yet so similar,
To what will one day be.
Andrew Hider 17-4-2020