by Richard Foreman

I, the virus?
What a preposterous designation!
And what allegations!
Accusing me of raping
Pillaging, killing, vandalizing
And the rest of the nonsense.
And though your words ring true
And though your accusations
Do have substance
Though I do these things,
Are you at all different?
Where do you receive your food?
Where do you find your drink?
How do you make your bricks
To build your houses?
From whom do you rip away metal
To build your lives?
Whose bones must be broken
For you to taste the marrow?
I am not malignant
For the most part!
Sure, my residence may cause leaks
And yes, my cousins may on occasion
Burn you to the ground
I look at you and see one difference
You have a brain
And thus the lunacy
To declare innocence!