When Being Polite Is a Losing Game A COVID-19 Poem You can’t do everything right. In these times, the smallest thing can lead to disaster, which has a new definition: death. Here is my list of what may kill me— not today, but in a week or two when the danger is forgotten. I may not wash my hands long enough. I may wash my hands too much and leave fissures for infection. I may run out of wipes. I already suspect the Bath and Bodyworks hand sanitizer is not real. It smells like peaches and that can’t be good. I have everything delivered but today the guy handed me the bags by the straps and his hand touched mine. I may die of being Southern, incapable of being rude enough to insist he set the bags on the porch and leave so I can breathe. That is my fear, the others mere decoys. I will die and if I do, my niche needs to say, Here lies Lanette. She was too polite.