Germ Warfare

For the first time since I was seventeen,

I woke up alone. You are gone,

and you took the children with you.

How can I ever get out of this bed again,

much less go downstairs, make coffee,

eat a banana, listen to Morning Edition,

take a shower get dressed go to work

smile say hello?

I can feel the emptiness in the house

without having to read your note;

I already know what it will say.

I can even see your bottom drawer is still open;

I must have been out cold last night.

By the end of the day, the neighbors,

my sister, my parents, your parents, 

they'll all know you've gone. I will probably

still be in bed. 

I will be abandoned. Left. "He left her" is 

what people will say. She's separated.

What would I call it, if anyone bothered to ask me?

I read an article last week, about germs, 

how they are everywhere, and you can't really 

get rid of them

or really live without them,

and it made me think of all the other inferior species

that roam our lives: the dog that barks too much,

the cat that sheds everywhere, the rat in the walls,

the hamster who dies a week after you buy him.

But even a dog who barks too much is just trying

to tell you something, isn't it? 

They use germs to kill other germs:

the anthrax of neglect, the sarin of indifference.

Taxes, birthday parties, working late, sick kids,

a whole life lived on the backburner

and eventually, through the constant shrill,

there comes a sudden and terrifying silence

and you don't even remember

what a dog barking

sounds like.