Maybe

Maybe I picked it up in some checkout line—
a Walgreens or a grocery store—
where overnight the shelves went bare,
and X’s sprouted from the floor.

Maybe I caught it from my neighbor,
who stuck his head too close to mine,
our faces both uncovered,
a faux pas then—now a crime.

Maybe I touched my own face too much,
scrubbed my hands not long enough,
and a viral-loaded Krakatoa
erupted in a cough.

Maybe I passed it to my friend
on that windy day in the park,
as the earth began to pull away
from its smooth and gentle arc.

And when all the curves are flat again,
and the world comes out to play,
and the watercolor sky is dripping blue,
maybe, we won’t wash it all away.