Ache

I wear a mask because my wife is sick,
And they insist, here in Intensive Care,
That no one ought to hold her hand, or share
A kiss, the way we did this morning. Pick
Any reason: like a moth to flaming wick
I'm drawn to touch her; I can hardly bear
To be apart from her, while standing there
Beside her, yet too far; my blood turns thick.

If I remember right, what helps is Scotch.
The nurses showed me how to pull each glove
As I exit. They're hovering above
The gauges and the instruments they watch:
The flashing numbers, and the telltale notch
On stark white bandaging. I ache with love.