Hand Washing. A poem by Gill McEvoy

We have been told to wash our hands
every time a chore’s been done,
or we’ve been outside, or stroked the dog.

Wash your hands again, again, again.
I’ve washed mine till the skin is nearly gone.

Then conscience says
‘don’t pour the water down the drain,
don’t waste’, so out it goes
to give my thirsty plants a soak.

At least I know, however long this quarantine,
my plants, if not my hands, are clean.

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