Peter Wallace

There she goes collecting her masks

She leaves a future whispered in it’s place

A calculated future for her misses

Before the mask finds a lasting place

Over the misses face

Or its detainer’s bare face

Before it masks an abiding face

Another mask fits into it’s back

Heaping together in a mound

A pile, a pillar, a mass

Mask after mask, she fetches

She leaves a future whispered in their places

A calculated future for their misses

She lays them until she’s had enough

She runs joyfully through the rough

Air runs through the masks

Many masks, ready to perch

Yet they must wait to reemerge

Excitedly, she jumps on a doormat

“Welcome”

She cocks her head before a cheeky grin,

Drops a mask and runs for the hills