Virus Dreaming

I woke up writing a poem.
It might have been a continuation
of my dreaming, though, because
I had taken out a newspaper
advert to write a short two column

by six inch persona
poem for the Virus.
If the Virus had a voice,
what accent would I give it?

Suddenly a locomotive of a thought,
Why is it that if given the choice
I will choose fear every time
In other words, why is it so easy
to succumb to fear?

The tone would clearly be villainous.
It would say something like,
You people love to talk. . .
with a long pause to convey power,

and authority, . . . about the
greatness of the human spirit.
Before continuing Virus
would take a breath in
through parted lips sucking

like a saliva ejector on fleshy
mucous-lined cheeks
sucking excess saliva
passed tongue and teeth, 

You love to talk. . .
about when this is all over.
As if it will ever be over.

I’ve got news
for you
this is over,
when we learn
to live

The Virus points out.
For some reason
I look to myself to guide
me; reading over past journal entries
I come across one that says,

my knowledge is so fragile.
And it is
because it is known
through the experience of others 

Another entry that goes,
sound and meaning are tied so
closely together. Sound is a finger
pointing and meaning is particular.

Then I begin to wonder if
Virus isn’t just the finger
pointing at me.