The Right Masks

Fallen bottle is empty,

The galleon  intact, but inverted.

I’m damned in public again:

Without clothes,

Short of good words;

The pierrot-priest

Wears a cartoon-policeman’s face,

Passengers on the moonbridge express,

While refusing to acknowledge

Each other’s existence,

Join together to laugh,

Soundlessly, at me.

“Far from home!” the penguin cries,

Rocking gently cowboy,

King of the silver horses, sighs.

If we can survive these lows,

These lies,

Find our own masks –

We may all

Be good people again.

Tomorrow