Who Washes the Soap?

Everything has provenance. You can’t laughwithout a smile,ache without pain,die without living. You can’t bewithout having been. You can’t muzzle plaguewithout clean hands.I wash,thereforeI live. Five-fingerlocomotion,every secondpowering the world,momentous and mundane—a handshake at Yalta,a backhand wipe of the nose—in perpetual motion,host of infinite germs‘til soaped away,pedestrian panacea forsurvival ina global and backyard lockdown. In search of origin,the mysterieswithin Russian nesting dolls,underneath layers of onion skin,gatekeepers of isolationtrace the Sickness retracing where you’ve been,who touched or passed by,and when. Shutout from main streetsin ghost towns,shut-ins venture outin agitated voyageto the market,oasis in a desert of doom,community at six-feet.mockingcivilization’s social ritualborn 3000

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