Member-only story
From fine white dust you came
To fine white dust you shall return —
It is quite possible
In the 80–90 years between
Birth and death
That you, fine white man,
In your white shoes
Walking white floor tiles
Driving battery powered vehicles
On winding white roads without a single pothole
Traversing white sidewalks
In this translucent suburban life,
Should you encounter the earth that brings forth food,
Would move to a washroom
Remove the the stuff of life
From your own fingers,
Frown and think
About a shower
With the chlorinated water
And antibacterial soap
That will kill everything dirty. . .
Everything.
A concerned mother in a grocery store entrance
Grabs a sanitary wipe,
Scrubs the bars of her shopping cart. . .
She smiles briefly
Relieved at vanquishing danger
