At the edge of the apocalypse, we all make jokes
about it being the apocalypse, we all carry
hand sanitizer in little bottles to trivia night at the bar
and then, after we high five, give our red, ravaged knuckles
a squirt and we can’t help but notice how the drunk girl
who gives us a high five puts her dirty mitts all over
the bottle and drops a bead of it on the floor. At the edge
of the apocalypse we learn about our inability
to spell “sanitizer” and how autocorrect doesn’t like
the real spelling, anyway. At the edge of the apocalypse
we read helpful comics about talking to your child
about the apocalypse, emphasizing
how children rarely experience severe symptoms, emphasizing
how mommy and daddy can call their doctor
if they experience severe symptoms, chasing away
the image of that jagged, mountainous graph we saw online
that compared the number of hospital beds here and in Italy,
and we try not to remember the sound of our parents’ hushed voices
