Invisible

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