Hoax

In the hoax tent across from me sat Dr. Patel

I think.

Hard to tell

with that mask,

but her eyes were familiar, from other days when

we wore no masks

and huddled together for rounds

and codes

and could read each others’ lips, not eyes

teeming with terror.

Like now.

When we each caught the other glancing,

            Hey, I know you.

            Will we die?

We both watched the bunny-suited man eagerly spraying

each empty chair with bleach,

not bothering to wipe,

so when that old woman stumbled backwards to sit,

then slowly got up when called,

the seat of her jeans had turned white.

And we both instinctively looked at our own pants,

now also white.

            Didn’t we feel that wetness?

            No.

We were only thinking of breathing.

The day before

and the day before that,

in the hoax hospital,

when I had felt a vague prickle in my throat,

I thought of allergies, shrugged and

continued caring for hoax patients

with blue lips and bounding chests like seesaws

and eyes full of terror not yet appreciated,

unable to think of breathing.

            I can smell the bleach.

            That’s good, right?

Nervous, muffled laugh conversation

awaiting the hoax swab and its hoax results

which will mean weeks of only this –

breathe

            breathe

                        breathe

but at least I can think it.

Do it.

And so not die.

Now we laugh again, passing in the hallways,

Crinkled eyes above hoax

masks

            masks

                        masks

            We were kidding all along.

            Able to breathe.

Only a hoax.

But I have not ever seen Dr. Patel again.