by Steve Taylor

For once the poetry feels dangerous.
The readers hesitate to handle it,
and if they pick it up, they feel a nervous
urge to wash, fearing what the words transmit.
For once all conversations have an edge
even ambitious groveling cannot dull.
No need for sucking up or trying to wedge
oneself into a more exclusive circle.
Behind our masks, we seem anonymous,
as if we now hate to be recognized,
and posturing becomes more obvious
when focused on each other’s shifty eyes.
You’ve made us more alert to eye rolls
and made us wish, for once, not to go viral.