The mask of no eye contact, when walking past a beggar,
fits most of us, I reckon, on most streets.
You wore it fixed and you were the still ones
on the train, in other passengers' booked seats.
No selling masks to you whose bad
has pulled your faces into tweets.
Too late. You took a risk against the card,
against the wheels, the racing. Now it's known. Hard.
The above has a very simple publication history. It was written in October 2019 for the Momaya competition, on the theme of masks, and published in the competition's anthology.