Some thoughts: White coat too short

by Mila Tamminga

800 people died in New York today,

but I soaked beans for chili and watered my plants.

Looked at my hands

that are two years too early to help

(or maybe I’m just too scared)

and put on tea to boil

for the third time today.

My white coat is stuffed in my backpack,

pockets still with crumpled papers

and marking pens

and thoughts of my patients

while the world ends around me.

Cried three times today,

but there’s nothing to grieve

except being too early.

White coat too short

for mask marks struck across my face.

I say it’s better this way.

I say “I’m a walking fomite, anyways.”

(Or maybe I’m just too scared.)