Six Feet Apart

My personal shopper daughter
leaves two bags of groceries by my
side door, then texts me, “I’m here.”

We chat for a minute across the slab
of concrete. She says, “I wish I could
hug you.” I reply, “I’m just glad to see
your beautiful face.” She waves and leaves.

I spray the paper bags with Lysol, carry
them inside, and put the cans and boxes
in the pantry on a dedicated shelf.
I won’t handle them for several days.

I scrub my hands with soap, while singing
“Happy Birthday” twice. I use my small
stash of Clorox wipes to clean the doorknobs.

This is my new Coronavirus normal as a
chronologically-disadvantaged human.

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