A Clean Fight

May 21

By Chris Robinson

I stand, work tools in hand,
in mask, visor, gloves and gown,
wet through, as hot as coals,
as stiff as non-slip rubber soles.
“Thank you,” she says,
a smile on her face,
“for helping save our lives.”
I see steady digits guiding
needles and knives and,
it seems, she can read eyes.
“You’re just as essential,
not front line but first line.”
And off she goes out the door.
So I set down tools, take up arms
and march, head high, into war.