Gloves

Gloves

A night at the opera
it’s not; I choose
my gloves with care
for a trip to the shops
in the time of plague.

I peel each latex finger
back as if it were surgery;
an operation to extract
goods from shelves
without making contact.

I’m protecting, surviving
a new Chernobyl;  a wind
that brings spiteful death
in its breathing. And every
surface is pearled with evil.

I make a shell of my face,
myself and clutch my bag
for life. I’m leaving now;
shedding one pair of safe
hands for another.