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Something has invaded me,
there's war in my blood:
single-celled fist-fights,
amoeboid armies, Colonel
Phlegm in the nose, phagocytes
doing what phagocytes do
best.
But the virus is pure
evil, it has multiplied.
It's contagious. It's infected
my wife, my neighbors,
complete strangers.
It spreads like a flag,
arrives on your front steps
in the morning paper.
It's turning me red, white
and blue. I need peace
of mind.
It's impossible to see
this little terror without
a microscope.
Doctors can't help me, they say
it's all in my head. But I see others
infected every night at five:
a majority of congress
is sick with it, the president
is boiling with the fever,
even Peter Jennings is showing
signs.
As for me, I'm limiting
my exposure; I'm holing-up
on the beach near the Elwha,
drinking plenty of liquids,
talking more with the trees,
hoping this disease will die
one person at a time.
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PATRICK LOAFMAN is the author of a
chapbook Song of the Winter Wren: Poetry of the Olympics. Loafman
is a wildlife biologist who has been working in the Olympic Mountains of
Washington for nine years.