When the plague doctor comes to town..

..we all look away and frown, shuffle our feet and look down, far beyond our daily ken is that which slouches toward Bethlehem to be born,

Herbs wilt in the whistling kettle, hours melt into the flashpan snapping its lock with swift metallic retort, veins narrowing their beds through flesh that grows wane with age and wear, this worrying circular tred, this memory of hands slipping fingers as they slack,

What then is all your goodly ware polished in its disingenuous array of focused cheer, it wearies me to witness,

So, instead, to remember my child's hand pressed against the window as the schoolbus departs, my brother's hand dragging the belt sander around the pillars, peeling away the kaleidoscope of layered paint, my lover's hand drawn through hair sparkling amber in the slant of light,

And when the plague doctor makes his goodly visit, I'll offer my hand to his ministrations and lift away to what gentle raptures array beyond a listless sail