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Caution I went to an ordering shop And did a bit of browsing.
I walked up to the electronic board Inside the small, Cramped building Filled with people Hoisting bags over their shoulders, Pulling saggy brown paper sacks into their arms.
The walls of the tiny room Were covered Covered, that is, in posters with Big, bold lettering Which commanded that we Avoid unnecessary bodily contact, Wash our hands often, And never, Never Touch anyone or anything that had even the smallest chance of being a carrier of the plague.
I took a deep breath, Inhaling the dirty city air, Nearly gagging, And leaned forward over the board. I swept through the menu I searched for items Things which I would later use To pass myself off As a contractor of The plague.
When I brought the items Dispensed from a chute across the room Up to the checkout counter, The owner of the store, Mr. Eckel Looked at me oddly But said nothing As he slid the items over the scanner And into the large plastic bag I'd brought with me.
People around here Always showed such caution, Never had any questions At least, none that anyone was willing to ask. Why risk revealing your paranoia When it could lead to something Much, much worse?
