Masked up, we get out on the street,
incognito robber, anarchist,
unidentifiable by friends,
clues of facial recognition gone.
Wiped away, the half ironic smile,
the pursed lips of dubiety,
lipstick red and smeared behind the cloth.

We're beating back invisibility,
microbes part suspended in the air;
collapsing lungs, organs closing down
indicate that time is running out.
We're hiding from ourselves what this means,
the hourglass is quickly emptying
and there's no hand to turn it up again.
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

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