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Traveling in a test Tube, a stop, start, petri dish.
Exposed to full frontal viral assault, more than I wish.
Immunity challenged each time I take a breath.
Attracted down the escalator, gambling with death.

Forced to grab a support rail, the train rapidly slows.
Same as a thousand hands before me, God only knows.
Each grip before me an untraceable contaminate.
Now my face is itching, the scratch will have to wait.

Forbid the horror intrusion of an invasive pandemic.
Forbid its virulence, forbid the slowly rising panic.
I arrive at work and naturally I will wash my hands.
I scratched on the way in, should I change my plans?



Makes me think that ...

Commuting on public transport is something millions and perhaps billions of people do each time they go to and come home from work. No step taken and nothing touched has not been walked or held by those going before us.


Lorraine Ansell

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This poem is narrated by Lorraine Ansell​ a British female voice over artist who is graciously supporting WorkInWords.

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