The handshake has died today
along with hugs, helping hands
high fives, fist bumps, cheek pinches
finger-licking goodness
the happy sounds of audiences
clapping, snapping, slapping
hands are dead.
Love in a time of corona
means no touching, skin
sanitized and air-kisses
six feet apart absolutely
no French, no feeling the flesh
means watch us, grandma,
no hands and don't reach
for us with warm hugs, grips
older than generations before
survivors of wars, plagues, germs
unknown to the early dead
hands have been around
since the very beginning
used to kill and maim, build, lift up
and beckon, beat, work, spank
speak volumes, flash signs, wash up
and get dirty again and again.
Hands that cared for southpaws
left or right in the white
rooms white beds white coats
blue gloves that probe
folded in final prayers.
Time to stop counting on fingers
and start lining up
for relief of paws, claws
feral tails wagging
pattering by windows
closed to contamination
to cries of the weakened
laid out on the doorstep
with today's delivery.
No more handing over
your dirty coins, cash
stay back behind the safety glass
and when the siren wails
lock yourself in a stall
and come out slowly
arms high in the air
touch no one else
with your dangerous
contagious
deadly hands.
Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes Florida noir with a dark humor. Poetry has appeared in Fourth & Sycamore, Flatbush Review, Penny Ante Feud, ink sweat and tears, r.kv.r.y quarterly literary journal, New Verse News, Dissident Voice, Synchronized Chaos, The Rye Whiskey Review, and elsewhere. Chapbooks include The Art of Bars (Finishing Line Press, 2016), Days' End (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2017), Final Arrangements (Prolific Press, 2019), and the disappearing self (Kelsay Books, 2020).