When This Is Over

When this is over

I am going to use a whole roll of toilet paper

every time.

Well, no.

That would be a crime against the environment

and besides

it would block the toilet.

But I am

going to get an ice cream

from that place with the bright red roof

where you stand in a long line

with your neighbors and strangers

then order at the window

then sit at a picnic table

that you might share with neighbors

or strangers

while you eat your butterscotch sundae

or vanilla-chocolate twist

or strawberry with rainbow jimmies

in a dish.

I am not going to cough on people

or sneeze on people.

I’ll still use my elbow

because

obviously.

But I am

going to hug my friends so tightly

that if we were made of clay

we would squish together and become one person

with a weird lumpy body that gets very narrow

in the area where my arms are wrapped.

I am not

going to stop there.

I am going to hug my grandparents, of course,

and my aunts and uncles and cousins

and also my teachers

and my neighbors

and the mail carrier

and the vet

and Mrs. Addison at the doctor’s office

who is always so kind

and, if I can convince him to come out from behind the window,

the guy who takes my order

for strawberry with rainbow jimmies

in a dish.