She lurched through life
masked as some kind of bandit
hoping to steal affection,
waiting impatiently
for the mardi gras of life
to throw beads her way.
She stumbled on embankments
peripheral vision hampered,
mask drawn too close to her soul.
Glancing downward,
sun blinding, glare too harsh,
she saw the rat staring from gutter’s grate.
Tomorrow would be yesterday.
No map to guide her.
she finally gave up hope.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Mish is asking us to write a poem that somehow deals with the word “mask.”







